Come Back To Me Again
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: Chelsie, Modern AU. Their paths crossed once in a hot August, forty years ago. He made a promise, and did not keep it. She has a secret, and has kept it. When their paths cross again, will they be able to get past the years separating them, or is it too much to overcome?
1. Prologue

**A/N: I have a new(ish) job, started in August. Choir season has started in earnest, with extra practices for Reformation (Lutheran here – it's the 500** **th** **anniversary tomorrow,** _ **kind of**_ **a big deal); Mister was in a play for the last week and a half, and we had guests two of the last three weekends. Oh, and both of us were sick. At separate times.**

 **I have three fics that I've pretty much promised to update (with, um, little success at this point) and a fourth that keeps nudging me.**

 **So what have I done with my limited writing time?**

 **I started writing a new fic.**

 **You'll find my picture in the dictionary, under the word "INSANE".**

 **The credit (or the blame) for the inspiration for this one goes to my parents. I helped them move to their new house in July. One evening when we were sitting around the table in their nearly-empty apartment, listening to my dad's phone play some of his favorite music (most of which I was unfamiliar with), the Carpenters' song "Superstar" began.**

 **The story just unfolded itself in three minutes. The title is a phrase from that song.**

 **Once again, this is an AU. And M. Once again, I'm taking these characters out of canon and trying to keep them real to themselves in a completely different setting. The second chapter is likely going to be the most NSFW – for reasons you'll understand. The rest of the story? Not so much.**

 **Love it? Hate it? Want to scream at me for not updating other stories? Please send me a line. Your feedback really does make all the difference to me. :-D**

 **I hope you all are having a good autumn!**

 ***"To the Rose upon the Rood of Time", by William Butler Yeats**

" **The Lady of Shalott", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson**

 _ **August, 2017**_

A blast of cold air fans the top of Charles's head, fluttering his grey hair.

He doesn't notice.

The air conditioner frequently kicks on during the dog days of summer. All the more so at the hospital.

Sybil reads aloud slowly. Each word calm and clear. Her Ipad rests against its holder, the video recording her face and voice.

" _...Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,_

 _An abbot or an ambling pad,_

 _Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,_

 _Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,_

 _Goes by to tower'd Camelot:_

 _And sometimes thro' the mirror blue_

 _The knights come riding two and two:_

 _She hath no loyal knight and true,_

 _The Lady of Shalott."_

Charles resists the urge to shift in his uncomfortable chair. His back aches, and there is an itch behind his right ear that's driving him crazy.

But he ignores his own discomfort. The task before him is more important. Holding the book steady for Sybil to see, he breathes out through his nose.

"… _But in her web she still delights_

 _To weave the mirror's magic sights,_

 _For often thro' the silent nights_

 _A funeral, with plumes and lights_

 _And music, came from Camelot:_

 _Or when the moon was overhead_

 _Came two young lovers lately wed;_

' _I am half sick of shadows,' said_

 _The Lady of Shalott."_

Robert sighs beside him. Charles thinks he knows what his old friend's thoughts are – that it was not so long ago that Sybil was newly married herself. Blissfully happy.

Before she became pregnant.

Before she had the ultrasound that discovered a mass that was not supposed to be there.

Before she refused treatment until her child was old enough to be delivered safely.

Before she had cancer.

"… _Who is this? And what is here?_

 _And in the lighted palace near_

 _Died the sound of royal cheer;_

 _And they cross'd themselves for fear,_

 _All the knights at Camelot:_

 _But Lancelot mused a little space;_

 _He said, "She has a lovely face;_

 _God in his mercy lend her grace,_

 _The Lady of Shalott."_

Sybil waits a beat before smiling into the camera, then she hits the red button. Immediately, she sinks back against the pillow, closing her eyes. Robert leaps to his feet.

"Darling, you push yourself too hard! No more today, you need to _rest_ -"

"The last thing I need is to _rest_ ," she shoots back. "I'll have plenty of time to rest later." Though her voice is a whisper, and her eyes are still closed, Charles can sense her defiance. Her will to persevere.

To do what she can before the end comes.

She is dying, and they all know it.

She has been reading aloud favorite poems and stories, recording her face and voice, so that her infant daughter will be able to see and hear her after she is gone.

Her courage and single-minded determination moves Charles like little else has in his life.

To distract from the tears filling his eyes, he closes the book and sets it aside, finally scratching his ear. Robert picks up the Ipad. He plays the video just recorded. Sybil's voice fills the room, and they listen to Tennyson's words.

"Excellent," Robert sits back down. "She won't have to do that one over." He speaks in a lower voice, glancing at his daughter. One of the machines beeps next to her bed. "Or that awful Yeats poem, thank heaven."

Charles raises his eyebrows. "You know she didn't read it to spite you…it was for Mr. Branson's sake."

For the life of him, he will never be able to refer to the young man as Tom. Beryl often says he acts more like he lives in the nineteenth century, rather than the twenty-first.

 _I haven't always._

The Yeats poem Sybil read earlier has brought back uncomfortable memories.

"… _In all poor foolish things that live a day,_

 _Eternal beauty wandering on her way…"*_

He is the poor, foolish one.

Robert's voice brings him back. "…should be glad Sybil didn't become enamored with anyone more exotic than a proud Irishman."

"There are worse things," Charles replies drily. "At least he plays cricket now."

"Reluctantly. And only because Matthew talked him into it." Robert leans back in his chair. The room is quiet for several moments, except for the air conditioner and occasional beeps from the various medical paraphernalia.

"I'm more than happy with my life," Sybil murmurs. "With all my family, both by blood and not…including the proud Irishman," she smiles and turns her head towards the window. "I do _love_ Tom, and I'm lucky enough that he loves me…of course I would like more time with him and with Sybbie…" Her voice wobbles, and she swallows hard. "But at least our daughter will know I've lived _life_. Never in the shadows, fully in the light. I don't want her to ever be afraid to take risks…I've tried to convince my sisters to do the same. What's the use in hiding what we feel? Or what we want to do? I told Mary if she loved Matthew, she should tell him…and Edith should go for that internship at the webzine. No matter what anyone else thinks."

Robert and Charles look at each other. Sybil has always spoken her mind. They both get the sense she is saying more now.

While she is still with them.

"Who is _your_ lady, Carson?" She whispers. A frisson of pain ripples across her young face.

The line between Robert's eyes deepens. "The treatment makes her…wander sometimes," he mutters, watching his youngest daughter intently. "Sometimes she doesn't make sense." Charles is certain he can see another grey hair appear on his friend's head.

"I am _not_ wandering, Papa." Sybil speaks louder. "I'm asking Carson a question."

Confused, Charles shakes his head. "What do you mean by 'lady'? You know I've never married. Your grandmother is the closest woman I've ever met who I could consider to be a 'lady', if that's what you mean. Your mother is one, too. And Mary. She's been tied 'round my little finger since she was born," he jokes. "And you and Edith are dear to me. You always have been."

"I'm not talking about _us_ ," Sybil rests her head against her pillow, her eyes fluttering open. "Or Granny, or Mama. Surely there's been at least one special woman in your life."

He thinks he knows what she means, but he's not about to indulge her. Even now.

"Of course," he says. "My mother."

Rolling her eyes, she almost looks like her old self, other than her sunken eyes, and bald head. "You _know_ that's not who I mean. Granny told me you wrote to your father years ago about a woman. When you were away on a summer job. She said you'd bought a ring, and everything-"

" _What?_ Who was she!? How does Mama know about this, and not me?" Robert stares at him in utter surprise.

Charles can think of several things Violet Crawley knows that her son does not.

 _It wouldn't be the first time._

"Tell me about her." Sybil's voice is quiet. "The woman. She must have meant a great deal to you. When Granny told Edith and me, we were surprised, but not shocked. We both thought it sounded very romantic."

 _It wasn't._

"Romances usually end with happy endings," Charles says finally. "This one doesn't."

"You wanted to marry her."

Her gentleness and honesty gives him courage.

"So badly, I could taste it," he hears himself say.

It was true then.

But he has not thought of Alice in years.

If he is honest with himself, it is not of Alice that he thinks of now.

He starts talking. Of a young man long gone, who dreamed of a life outside of an office, away from numbers and spreadsheets and suits and ties and stifling, mind-numbing routine.

When he talks about working in summer stock theatre, Robert is even more shocked.

"Carson, _you_ were on the stage!?"

"I was." Charles keeps his focus on Sybil. She is smiling, taking in every word he says.

He tells her about meeting Charlie Grigg, of forming their double act. Meeting the Neal sisters. Traveling. Hearing applause. Bonding in the way that only actors do.

Robert shakes his head as Charles mentions the stop they made in Memphis. "July, 1977? Did you see Elvis? Those were his last days." He gets up when his phone buzzes. "Sorry. It's your mother," he says to Sybil. "I'll be right back."

As soon as the door closes behind him, a weight lifts from Charles's shoulders.

 _He leaves now, right when I get to the important part of the story…_

He could skip it. Make up something simple, tie up the loose ends in a neat bow.

Sybil would never know.

But he has held some things in his heart that have seldom gotten out.

Certain things he will never speak of again, to anyone.

Some things he can, and does, say.

Sybil's eyes widen when he tells her about Alice and Grigg, and how they broke his heart. About the last shows they all performed at a rundown theater called _The Hound._

His gazing up at the stars on a hot August night.

A long oak bar and a complimentary glass of water from a woman standing on the other side of it.

She had a smile that touched his heart. A pair of deep blue eyes that at times still appear in his memory. Dancing with her past midnight on a dusty floor. Kissing in the shadows of a corridor, her nimble fingers in his hair.

Living without regrets, waking in tangled sheets with the strange yet strangely familiar woman in his arms.

Saying goodbye, and yet never quite letting go.

The words come haltingly, as though each one struggles to leave his mouth. By the end, everything is fluid.

It feels so strange to _talk_ about those days. He has never spoken of them. To anyone. Not even to Violet, who he thinks suspects something of this nature. Not to Beryl, who has pried nearly everything else out of him.

He stands, feeling stiff, and leans against the window. It is ironic – outside, it is August, like the days he describes, only the year is 2017 instead of 1977, and he is a completely different man.

 _I stopped being that devil-may-care young man a long time ago._

"Aren't you tired of shadows?" Sybil whispers.

Her voice makes him start. He has forgotten where he is. That he had an audience at all.

"Carson," Sybil holds her hand open. He leans over and takes it, feeling how cold it is. Her frail bones, the lack of strength.

She and her sisters have always referred to him by his last name. He's never minded it; Robert almost always calls him that. But now that his old memories have been smashed open, he suddenly wishes he could hear his _first_ name spoken.

Though in his mind it is always with a slight Scottish accent.

 _Charlie_ , a caress around the _r,_ said in the way _she_ held him in her arms.

Like he was home.

"Sybil?" He asks, mindful of the very real woman before him, and not the long-vanished ghost.

"Carson," she repeats, taking a breath, "I want you to do something for me. It's important."

"Anything," he kisses her head gently. "I'm listening."

"Don't be satisfied with the life you've had," she mutters, her eyes closed. "You've lived alone for a long time, but it's past time you stepped out of the shadows." She opens her eyes, not letting him look away. "Find her."

 _I can't_ , he wants to say. "I…don't know her name."

"Start looking at the old theater. Something will turn up. Find her for your own sake, and not for mine," Sybil continues. "Even if she's dead, at least you'll know what happened to her. That's what you want, isn't it?"

He cannot argue with her.

She smiles, a warm glint in her tired eyes. "I only wish I could help you."

He says the only thing I can think of. "I'll try. I promise."

Robert comes back in, tucking away his phone. "That was Cora. She'll be here in a little while, with Edith."

Charles lifts Sybil's hand and kisses it. "I should go. I'll be back tomorrow evening." He holds her eyes for a moment, pleading silently with her.

 _Don't tell him._

"I'll see you then," she says softly. He sets her hand down on her lap and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, wrapping it so it doesn't fall off.

"You don't have to come every day," Robert says in a low undertone by the door. "I mean, we all appreciate it, but it's hard, I know. You don't have to carry the burden, too."

"I want to." Charles says. "I want to see her as often as I can." He feels the lump in his throat growing bigger. "I've known her since she was born."

Robert claps his hand, his lips pressed together. "I know," he whispers. His eyes fill with tears.

Clearing his throat, Charles lets go of his friend. "Tell Cora and Edith I said hello."

Robert nods, and holds the door open for him as he leaves.

00000

He struggles to control his emotion as he trudges down the pristine hallway to the elevators. No one would think less of him if he cried openly, but he does not want to cry in public if he can help it.

Even if there is a good reason for it.

Taking deep breaths, he waits for the _ding_ of the elevator doors. He is glad no one is inside. He punches the button for the ground floor. Just as the doors begin to slide shut, he hears a nurse's voice call.

"Wait! Someone's coming!"

He throws out his hand, and the doors go backwards again.

"Thank you," a man's voice says. An instant later, a golden retriever on a leash, followed by a wavy-haired man, steps into the elevator. "I do appreciate it."

In seconds, Charles's curiosity is satisfied. The animal wears a vest. He is a seeing-eye dog. His companion is tall and well built, looking like he is in his thirties. His eyes are open, but clouded.

The man is blind.

Below his cargo pants, his left prosthetic leg is paired with his heavily scarred right.

"I thought I had heard a dog in the hallway before," Charles says as they go down. "I did wonder."

The blind man smiles. "Blackjack* doesn't usually bark. My father-in-law likes to get him to bark, even though he knows he shouldn't."

"Is your father-in-law a patient here?"

"Yes." The man's smile fades. "Multiple myeloma."

"I'm sorry," Charles puts his hands in his pockets, wishing he had said nothing.

"He has the best care, I'll say that. The staff here are excellent."

"They are."

"Do you know someone on the ward?"

Charles nods, before remembering the man can't see. "Sybil. Sybil Craw-Branson, I mean."

"I'm so sorry. My sister-in-law knows friends of hers…everyone talks about how wonderful she is."

"She is," Charles's voice wavers.

 _It isn't fair._

 _I'll be seventy soon, and she…_

"How are you related?"

The doors open, and Charles lets the man and his dog exit first. "We aren't," he says as they both go towards the front doors. "I mean…I'm a family friend."

His heart aches.

 _They're all the family I've got._

"Blood or not, having someone we love suffer is never easy." The man slows as the automatic doors slide open. Hot summer air blasts into their faces. The western sky is still light, but cars on the highway have their lights on.

"Too true." Charles slides his glasses out of his pocket, and checks his watch. It has slowed. He makes a mental note to take out the battery when he gets home. "Are you waiting for the bus? The express should be coming along in about ten minutes or so."

"Oh no," the man turns to go down the sidewalk. "Thank you, though. I'm taking Blackjack to the pet area. My mother-in-law will be here soon."

"Ah. Well, I hope your father-in-law improves." From the look on his face, Charles rather doubts it, but he wants to be polite.

"Thank you. And…I am sorry about Sybil. We're all praying for her."

"We appreciate it."

Walking to his car, Charles leans his head back. Stars are coming out in the evening sky. He opens the door of his Jetta, and waits for some of the obscenely hot air inside to leave before getting in.

He has to wait at the stop sign for two cars to turn into the parking lot. One has come from the highway, a big white Suburban, and its headlights sweep across his vision for an instant before leaving him in the darkness again.

He drives home, thinking of Sybil and story she got out of him.

 _Forty years go by before I tell someone._

 _I'll never find that woman…it's impossible._

 _You promised to try._

 _It would not be the first time you made a promise without keeping it._

00000

Elsie stifles a yawn while she's driving. Normally she hates driving on the highway, but she's done it so often lately that it no longer fazes her.

 _I'm not that farm girl anymore._

 _I haven't been, not for a long time. Not really._

The thought makes her feel guilty. She still lives on the farm that she and Joe have run for close to thirty years, but it has always been his pride and joy, not hers.

Now she is the one who runs it, while her husband lies in a hospital fighting for his life.

It is a fight she knows he is losing.

At the familiar exit, she gets off and waits at the red light before entering the hospital grounds. A handsome Jetta idles at the stop sign as she turns. Someone getting off a shift, or leaving after visiting a relative, more likely.

Humid air invades the Suburban the second she opens the door. By the time she gets to the sidewalk, carrying her purse and bags, she can feel her shirt clinging to her back.

 _I should have waited to shower here. What's the use?_

Stars appear in the evening sky.

She walks more in the direction of the pet area, out of instinct. "Hello," she calls, seeing Edward there. Turning in her direction, he smiles.

"Hi Mum," he comes over with Blackjack, and she kisses his cheek.

"I thought I'd find the two of you here-oops, sorry." One of the bags slips off her arm and onto the ground, partway onto Edward's foot.

"Let me carry it," he says. Elsie picks up the duffel by its straps and hands it to him. He pulls the straps over his shoulder. "It's heavier than usual – what did you bring?"

She sighs as they go into the hospital. "You remember Joe talking about that mantle clock? The one that belonged to his gran? Well, I got it out of the attic. I cleaned it up as best I could, but it's dead. I want him to look at it, to see if he wants me to take it to a repair shop or-"

"-or let Thomas play with it for an hour and work his magic," Edward finishes. "He'll probably ask him to look at it before having you take it anywhere."

"Anna texted me before she left. I hoped to be able to see her tonight," Elsie shakes her head. "I want to ask her about John Bates _myself_ , instead of hearing about him secondhand."

"You will," Edward reassures her. "She told me she's determined to be here when you're here this week. At least once."

In the hallway near Joe's room, Elsie stops to talk with a red-headed nurse.

"I knew it," Ethel says. "I knew when Edward took Blackjack out for a walk, I'd soon get an interrogation from you." She tries to smile, but it does not quite reach her dark eyes. "He's…so-so today. Not much worse than yesterday, but no better."

Elsie's heart sinks. "Well," she swallows, fumbling with her purse, "that's to be expected, isn't it?"

She braces herself before going in. Coming every day, the changes in Joe are not dramatic to her, but it is hard to see him wasting away, when for so long he was strong.

He smiles when he sees her, the thin skin around his eyes crinkling. "Els. How are ye?"

Dropping her purse on a chair and leaving the paper bag on his tray, she sinks down onto the bed next to him. "Hot." She kisses him, careful to be gentle when she gives him a hug.

He does not raise his arms to embrace her back. It hurts to see him so weak.

"How's the crop?" He whispers. She tells him about the farm as she bustles around, getting the Chinese food out of the paper bag, filling a plate for Edward, then unzipping the duffel and unwrapping the mantle clock.

Joe's eyes light up when he sees the heirloom. "You remembered." She sets it next to him, and watches as he touches the face. "It looks good…did you clean it?"

"Thoroughly."

"Thank you. It looks good."

"I thought maybe Thomas could look at it when he gets back on Wednesday," she says. "Or I could take it to a repair shop, if you think it needs a more professional eye."

"There's not many who could do a better job than Thomas in fixing it," he murmurs. He flexes his fingers, and rubs at the tape around his IV.

"Seeing as either he or Anna will end up with it, I thought you'd trust him with it." She smiles.

 _My lad and his clocks. He always did love them._

Joe stares at it. His whiskers have grown longer, and she knows he'll want a trim soon.

"Edward," he begins, then stops to cough. "Would you-would you mind giving us a moment? Alone?"

Their son-in-law sets down his fork in the corner and stands up. "Sure. Just come and get me when you're done. The orange chicken really is good, Mum. Thanks."

"It isn't," Elsie whispers to Joe as the door clicks shut. "But China King is the only place where I could get it on my way here." She frowns, seeing the look on her husband's face. "What is it?"

Joe reaches for her hand. "I've been thinking about the farm. What happens to it after I'm gone…I want you to sell it. The farm machinery, too. And anything else you don't want. The land's good, and you'd get a good price for it. Maybe even have a little left over after paying off all the debts."

It is a complete reversal from what he was insisting just days ago, when they had last talked about it.

"Are you _sure?_ " She raises her eyebrows. "I thought…we all thought you wanted us to keep it."

She wonders why he wanted Edward out of the room. Did Joe think he would try to change his mind?

"I did, once," he says. "But it's not practical even if one of you wanted to keep farming the land. Which I know none of you do. No, not even you. I'm not angry, Elsie," he squeezes her hand. "If anything, I'm grateful. Grateful that you've been beside me all these years. Stood by me when I was stubborn…when I was stupid, too."

He pauses, and there is an uncomfortable silence. She thinks she knows what he's thinking, but she does not want him to dwell on it.

Nor does she want to think about it.

"The least I can do is to make sure you get something out of being married to me," he whispers hoarsely. "I still wonder what would have happened if I'd never met Ivy that summer…if I'd asked you to marry me our last year at university, like I'd planned."

Elsie's heart feels like it is being squeezed. It is so rare for Joe to open up like this, and she knows it's important, and yet it brings back so many memories that she has tried to forget.

Without success.

The mention of Ivy, Joe's first wife, gives her an opening to dodge her discomfort. "What about Peter?" She asks. "He's your son. The farm belonged to your aunt and uncle for years, and before them, your grandparents. Have you asked him about it?"

"I don't have to. He hasn't been back here for more than two days in years, you know that." He sighs. "I'm glad he finally got his life back on track. But he's never wanted to be a farmer. Anna is fond of the place, I know, but she has her own job, her own life. So does Thomas, and Edward with him." He touches the wooden outer shell of the clock. "I couldn't ask your children to take it on. It's not in their blood."

It is as though icy fingers have brushed the back of her neck. She flinches. "They are your children, too," she pulls her hand away. "You helped raise them – you're the only father they've known! You were so supportive of Thomas when he was in school, and you knew Anna since she was eight-"

"They were yours before I came crawling back to you," he speaks a bit louder. "They've always been yours first. You were both mother and father to them, and they would have turned out fine if I hadn't come into the picture."

She once saw a boxing match on television. The two fighters spent most of the time in the ring dancing around each other, feeling each other out. That's what it feels like to her.

There is a creeping sense of dread, that Joe is going to talk about what she fears most of all.

 _What is the POINT, if he does? It doesn't matter._

 _I can't go back and change things._

"That's not true," she whispers, not sure if she believes herself. "You've influenced them both, in different ways. They love you."

"Which is more credit to you, for raising them to be decent human beings. Anna is sweet…she's the daughter I never had…" He stares at her, forcing her to meet his eyes. "And Thomas…I tried. You tried. _He_ tried. We're friends, and that's the closest we'll ever be. And that's okay."

She tries to make a joke. "Once, the two of you being friends would have been a bridge too far."

He smiles. "Once."

The room is quiet, except for his monitor and the air-conditioning kicking on again. It reminds her of a dimly-lit hotel room, and she pinches the palm of her hand to keep the memory away.

 _Not_ _ **now**_ _._

"I should get Edward," she says, standing up. "His dinner's getting cold."

Joe reaches for her hand again, and she takes his. "I want you to sell the farm for your sake too, Els. Not just for the children's sake. You need to live for _you_ after I'm gone. You've always been unselfish, looking after everyone else. But I know a part of you has wanted to try new things, to see what else is out there. That's why I wanted you to take that cruise last year."

"You, and Thomas, and Anna and Edward," she says. "You were supposed to go with me."

"Ack," he leans his head back. "It worked out better that you went alone. You needed that time." His eyes are wistful. "You should have seen yourself when you came back…you were happy. Glowing. Chattering about the people you'd met, the places you'd seen. I've only ever seen you that happy when the children were home."

"You've made me happy, Joe." She leans over and kisses him. _I wish he wouldn't run himself down._ "I've known you since I was a girl. I would never have said 'yes' when you proposed if I'd thought we wouldn't be happy together."

He reaches up and pulls a strand of hair from her face. "Aye, I know. And believe me, when you did say yes I was the happiest man alive." His smile flickers. "We've had some good times, you and I. I hope you'll find someone to spend the rest of your life with who understands you better than I do…I think you did, once."

Her heart stutters. "I don't know who you mean."

"I think you do. The same summer I met Ivy."

She closes her eyes. She does not want to remember. Not the pain, not the wondering why things happened the way they did.

It is hardest to remember how _happy_ she was. How carefree.

 _Living without regrets._

 _It was a different time, and I was a very different woman._

"How can you say that he meant so much to me," she whispers, "When I don't remember his name? Or even what he looked like?"

"He left his mark."

To her eternal relief, Joe says nothing more about it. He simply squeezes her hand, and gestures to the door. "Go on, bring Edward back in here. We were talking about different breeds of dogs…seems he and Thomas are thinking about adopting one."

When he tells Edward that he's changed his mind about the farm, the young man does try to convince him to hold firm. But ultimately he acknowledges his father-in-law's wishes.

Joe falls asleep soon after.

Elsie eats her dinner, then she and Ethel make up the pull out bed in the corner. It's bigger than what it seems. Though Elsie can't seem to sleep any better on it than she can sleep alone at home, in a bed she used to share.

"Thank you for taking me home," Edward tells the nurse out in the hall. "Anna said to tell you she owes you a coffee."

" _Another_ date with the mysterious Mr. Bates?" a smile hovers on Ethel's lips. "My, my. She must be serious about him."

"Not serious yet," Elsie retorts, only half-joking. "It's only serious when she introduces him to her mother."

"Fair enough." Ethel takes Edward's arm. "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night," she says, rubbing her arms. _Is this a hospital, or a deep freeze?_

"Good night, Mum," Edward calls as they go down the hallway. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

She checks on Joe, then reads a bit. She's learned it's no good to try to sleep when a nurse will come in right after. Instead she reads until she gets drowsy, then she crawls onto the sofa-turned-bed.

Memories prick at her brain. They keep her awake.

She remembers more than she lets on. Not that she lets herself think of those days too often.

But sometimes the memories come flooding back when she least expects them.

 _When I was still a student, with the world in front of me…when I was still young._

 _When I thought I knew what love was._

A dark curl on a smiling man's face. Leaning across the bar to hand him a drink.

More than once across the years she has come out of sleep with the half-remembered memory of his warm hands on her. The way he held her close, like he didn't want to let her go.

The way his eyes flickered from hers to her lips. The way her heart beat when he kissed her.

Her heart aches.

 _He promised to come back._

 _He never did._

She has gotten over her disappointment years ago.

Or did she?

 _You had your own life to live, as did he._

It would have been a different life if he had come back, she muses.

Under the thin blanket, she turns over, trying to find a comfortable spot on the pull out bed.

"Charlie," she whispers under her breath.

She does remember his name. Still.

Just not his last name.

 _What happened to you?_

 _Why didn't you come back?_


	2. August, 1977

**A/N:**

 **I wrote this chapter back in August. It was intended to be the first chapter, but…well, now it's the second. If you haven't read the first chapter, you should.**

 **Spoiler: FLASHBACK!**

 **Songs and lyrics referenced in this chapter are: "Hotel California" by the Eagles; "I Will Survive" by Donna Summer; "Can't Help Falling In Love", by Elvis Presley; "How Deep Is Your Love" by the Bee Gees; and "Superstar" by the Carpenters.**

* * *

 _ **August, 1977**_

"Hotel California" is playing from the jukebox again, and Elsie sighs.

 _I like this song, but with as often as it's played, I'm sick of it._

She finishes wiping off the table. Behind the bar, she passes Miranda, who's carrying out a tray of Budweiser. The two women share a rueful smile.

"' _This could be heaven or this could be hell_ ,'' they half say, half sing to each other. The din of the room on a summer Saturday night is deafening. Elsie can barely hear herself, much less her friend, barely a foot away.

She slips into the kitchen and washes her hands with cold water. Splashing some on her face, it does little to cool her down. Her white blouse is stuck to her skin. She rearranges her skirt only to look up to see Jos Tufton leering at her. She gives him the most withering stare she can, but he isn't bothered by it.

"You look like you need to get out of here," the oversized cook says, rubbing the back of his hand on his sweaty forehead. His apron is stained with grease. "Ernie can hold down the fort in here – most of 'em out there will be drinking till close. What do you say we go next door and catch the late show?"

"No," she snaps. _Not_ _again_ _._ "How many times do I have to say it?"

Maddeningly, he reaches for her as she moves to go back through the door to the bar. His hand brushes her bum. "Oh come on, Elise-"

" _Elsie,_ " she huffs, and grabs his wrist. He yelps. "I _told_ you not to touch me!"

"What's going on here?" Rusty, the owner and bartender, pokes his head through the swinging door. "Jos, I swear to God if you don't get back to work, you're fired. The show will be over in forty-five minutes. Hank told me they're almost at capacity tonight for once. And _you_ ," his brown eyes glare at Elsie, "What in the _hell_ are you doing back here? Do you think Tammy and Miranda can do it all themselves? Get out here! _Now!_ "

Elsie lets go of Jos and goes back into the steaming, stifling bar. If she had a choice, she would quit her job immediately.

 _Four summers I've worked here. And it's only getting worse._

 _But I need the money to help pay for Becky._

Her full time summer job is in the administration office of the local factory. At nights she works at the bar. At times Mam mutters about her needing to have fun, to do the things young people do, but she pays her mother little heed.

She's had to be responsible since she was young.

 _Da left, and then Granddad died._

Most of her fellow students at university seem to thrive on letting their feelings dictate their actions. She rarely does the same. Once, a young man who she'd turned down, scoffed at her. "You're more like a robot than a woman," he said.

 _I am not,_ she thinks. _I just have to keep my feelings in check._

 _Life has a way of paying us back when we don't._

Her sister Becky is older than her by two years, but her mind has never progressed past the age of ten. Elsie's second summer job is vital to help her mother pay for Becky's care. She has been saving every penny of her wages and tips.

Rusty's, the roadside bar where she works, is right next to a theater called _The Hound_. Once, people like Ethel Merman used to perform there. Or so the stories go.

If there ever were such days of glory at the theater, those days have long since passed. For over a decade, its manager Hank has struggled to get acts who will accept the low fee he offers. He usually breaks even by showing movies.

Not this summer.

During August, a comedy duo and sister singing act are performing at _The Hound._ It isn't high entertainment, but it's different, and it draws in locals and travelers alike. As a result, Rusty's is busier than ever. Elsie is reaping some of the profits.

She mouths the words along with Donna Summer as she passes glasses of foaming beer and bottles over the bar.

 _Oh no, not I_

 _I will survive_

 _Oh, as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive_

 _I've got all my life to live_

 _I've got all my love to give_

 _I will survive…_

Guilt gnaws at her. She has finished three years at university, and has one year to go. For all three years she has been in a relationship with Joe Burns.

They've grown together through sleep-inducing lectures, late night study sessions, and a respect for hard work. They fell in love.

Or did they?

Their break up in the spring was mutual, with the unspoken understanding that they would get back together in September. Joe's been working on his uncle's farm up north again for the summer.

It is not the first time they have broken up, but they always seem to come back to each other. Elsie has a niggling feeling it is because neither of them have the will to make a permanent break.

Joe is not like most men. When he writes Elsie that he misses her and can't wait to see her, she knows he means it. He is not false.

He sends a good portion of his wages to her, too. She sends them on to Mam.

In short, he is everything a woman could want. _Should_ want. Solid, reliable, kind. She knows he plans to propose to her in the autumn.

 _He is good to me. We do care for each other. I can't imagine life without him._

 _What more do I want?_

She feels like she doesn't love him like she should. If they were in a dance, they would be just out of step. With each other, with the music.

Rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead, she grabs another glass and fills it from the tap.

 _You are searching for something that isn't there. He is the best man you know._

So why does she feel trapped?

* * *

 _Saturday, the 23_ _rd_ _of July, 1977._

The day his dreams ended.

It felt like the end of his life.

Charles blinks in the darkness as he stands in the wings. Waiting for his cue. The audience laughs as Alice and Ellen banter back and forth. On stage left, he sees Charlie Grigg. His partner is talking with Hank, the manager of _The Hound._

Quickly, Charles looks away. He needs to concentrate.

When he's on stage, he can forget about his real life.

It is ironic that he shares the stage with those who hurt him so badly.

Betrayed by his once-best friend, and his girlfriend.

Alice.

The love of his life.

 _Or so I thought._

Pain comes over him like a wave, stabbing him in the heart.

 _She never loved you_ , he thinks, watching Alice laugh beneath the bright lights. _She was only using you._

 _What do you know of love?_

The girls finish, waving and blowing kisses to the cheering audience.

 _At least there's a good crowd tonight._

They have three more weeks at _The Hound._ Three more weeks of being a Cheerful Charlie on stage by night, and the heartbroken Charles by day.

He wishes he had listened to Dad. His father was not against acting or touring. But the fact that he had told his son his worries was significant.

" _It's all well and good to live footloose and fancy free when you've got the world in front of you. But you're not a youngster anymore, lad. You've got a good job waiting for you in September. After you get home, it's time to settle down. Get to work and find a nice girl. Marry her, and make a life for both of you._

 _What more do you want?"_

What does he want?

For a long time he wanted nothing more than to make a living on stage. He was fine with not knowing where he would sleep, or where the next job would be, but this summer the novelty has finally worn off.

Next year he will be thirty, and he feels it. Where in the hell did the time go?

Dad offered him a job, which is more than a lot of people can say. It's in real estate, which does not really interest Charles, but it's a start. It could lead to something better. In the meantime, he can save money.

 _You HAVE been saving money. All summer._

 _For a ring._

He thought he had found the girl. Until two weeks ago.

At another motel, in another town.

Alice, Grigg, and a groupie, all in bed together.

At least at _The Hound_ he doesn't have bad memories.

Only scars.

He and Grigg perform to an enthusiastic audience. The crowd laughs at the slapstick humor and juggling, gleefully watches the jokester and the straight man, and roars at Charles's expressions. Their applause warms his heart. It reminds him of why he loves performing in front of people. He bows with a flourish, and is sufficiently giddy enough to smile at his partner offstage.

"Let's go to Rusty's!" Grigg yells after the curtain falls. "Drinks on me!"

So they all troop over to the bar. The place is packed, loud, and unbearably hot. Some of those already there spill outside, filling the night air outside the open doors with a haze of cigarette smoke.

The haze inside is eye-watering.

Charles is inside just long enough to get a beer from a woman behind the bar. He feels sorry for her, as well as the other people who work there.

 _At least when we're done performing, the audience goes home. Here, they have to wait until everyone leaves._

The owner of the bar never kicks anyone out. Hank has told Charles sometimes the place is still open at three o'clock in the morning.

He escapes through a side door on the other side of the building. It is quieter, and darker here. Standing in the shadows, he can see a few stars glimmering above him. He sighs and enjoys the beauty in the night sky.

 _Sometimes we search for what we long for, only to find it right in front of us._

He is content for the moment to simply watch the stars and let everything else fade away.

"Would you like another beer?"

Her lilt is soft, but he jumps, steadying himself against the wall.

"Sorry…I didn't see you," he mutters.

"It was my fault. I should have coughed or something." There is enough light for him to see her smile.

She is pretty. Hips that curve just so. Wavy hair, high cheekbones, and eyes that glimmer in the darkness like the stars.

"No, no," he shakes his head, hoping he didn't offend her by looking her up and down. "It's not your fault. I was just…thinking. Um, no thank you. I think one drink is enough for tonight." He swirls the last dregs of his beer and swallows it, passing it over to her. She balances a tray with empty bottles and glasses in her left hand, but takes his glass in her right.

 _She is stronger than she looks._

When their fingers brush, he feels something. Like a current of electricity without the spark.

She does not seem to notice, setting the glass on her crowded tray. "Well, if you change your mind, don't be shy. We're going to be open for a while."

It feels as though the loud noise had dimmed, then suddenly sprung back to full volume. The raucous laughter reaches his ears. It reminds him of July 23rd, and he feels slightly ill. "Thank you," he manages to say, and she goes back in.

Alone again, his peaceful reverie gives way to the hurt he's recently suffered. He re-enters the bar, if nothing else than to be around people. It's better than being alone with his regrets.

He finds an empty stool and sits on it, letting his mind drift as the music blares.

He almost knocks over a glass in front of him but catches it before it tips. Condensation runs down the sides. Looking for the bartender in confusion, he sees the waitress who had been outside. Their eyes meet.

She gestures at him to drink it. He does, with some trepidation, then smiles.

It's water.

 _Thank you,_ he mouths, lifting it a little in acknowledgment.

 _You're welcome,_ she smiles. Then she turns to fill another man's glass from the tap.

* * *

The sisters Alice and Ellen are loud, and they lure men like honey draws bees, she thinks. She is not jealous of them. Rather, she is glad when the two come to Rusty's. It means Jos and the other regulars lose interest in her and Miranda.

It is nicer not having to worry about someone putting a hand up her skirt.

As often.

Charlie Grigg is a short man with an even shorter mustache. He flirts with and kisses both sisters, and other women. He gives Elsie the once-over at least four times a week. He propositions her on the 16th, the day that Elvis dies. "Love Me Tender" blares in the background.

"I thought you and Alice were together," she says, her voice calm. Charlie's hand jumps to the back of his neck. She enjoys the worried expression on his face.

"We're not exclusive, if that's what you're asking," he says, not sounding very confident. "She won't mind. We're free spirits."

 _I doubt she would say that._ Alice strikes her as the sort of woman who wants a man to be loyal to her, but the virtue is not struggles not to roll her eyes. "No thank you," she says, rather prim. She thinks about telling Grigg she has a boyfriend. For some reason she decides not to.

Rusty leans on the bar, not having heard their conversation. "If you want to dance, you'd better take your chance. The others girls just decided to stop working." He gestures to the dance floor. Both Miranda and Tammy are dancing with regulars.

Grigg's expression lights up, and he reaches for Elsie's hand. "Come on, Elise, let's dance while we're young." She yanks her hand away from him, not caring that he got her name wrong.

"I _said_ no thank you." It comes out with some heat. "I don't want to dance with you."

"If you don't want to dance with him, what about me?" To her horror, Jos elbows past him. "Just one dance, that's all I want."

She wants to scream. Instead, she elbows her way past both of them. She flees to the kitchen and gathers clean glasses. Stacking them beneath the bar, she forces herself to breathe deeply to avoid exploding in anger.

"What's wrong?"

Elsie glances up, flustered. Grigg's partner, the taller of the two men, has come back inside. "Nothing," she says quickly. "I've just had a long day."

She's used to sorting out her own problems. No need to drag anyone else into them.

She struggles to remember his last name – _something C_ , she thinks. Collins? Carter? Whatever his name, he usually always spends most of the nights after the show outdoors. She can't blame him.

"You look like you need a glass of water."

Her heart skips. His voice is deeper than she thought. It is the first time she's heard it clearly.

"The question is, should I drink it, or throw it on someone?" She forces a laugh, then indulges herself. She pours herself a glass.

"As long as you don't throw it on me," he grins. "Though I probably need it." A trickle of sweat runs down his temple, and one damp dark curl sticks to his forehead.

It makes him look rather endearing. She feels herself smile, a real one. They both sip their water as Elvis's "Burning Love" plays in the background. He watches the couples dancing with a wistful look in his eye.

"Do you like dancing?" She asks. "I'm surprised you're not out there." Ellen and several girls are talking in a corner.

The smile he attempts is painful. "I've lost my taste for it lately."

If Grigg and Jos hadn't bothered her, she would likely have been dancing, never mind Rusty. She enjoys it. With the right partner.

 _Joe doesn't often dance, even when he knows I want to. He says he has two left feet._

"Would you like to dance? Just once," she says lightly. "We can afford to live a little, can't we?" She walks from behind the bar and holds out her hand.

He stares at her a moment, then sets his glass down on the bar. "I suppose we can."

The first time they had touched, outside the bar, she had thought she had imagined feeling something when his fingers brushed by hers.

But when their hands touch the second time, she knows it is real.

Her heart stutters again. She isn't sure how she should feel, only that she _does._

It's been a long time since she's felt anything much with Joe.

Or anyone.

To heighten her embarrassment, "Burning Love" ends seconds after they are on the dance floor. In the awkward silence, she wonders if she should just go back behind the bar. They are still holding hands when another song starts. He takes the lead, his other hand solid on her back.

 _Wise men say_

 _Only fools rush in_

 _But I can't help falling in love with you_

 _Shall I stay?_

 _Would it be a sin?_

 _If I can't help falling in love with you?_

His face flames at the lyrics. Both of them look everywhere but at each other. Elsie is certain he can hear her heart beating. Desperate to say something, she asks the first thing that comes to mind.

"Is your name really Charlie?"

It doesn't have to be, she thinks. It could just be a stage name.

"Yes," he says, looking down at her in surprise. "My mother always called me Charles, but my father calls me Charlie sometimes. So do most of my friends."

"Ah," her eyes twinkle. "So I was wrong. I thought your first name was 'Cheerful'."

He snorts out a laugh through his impressive nose. "That would be awful! Not many people would describe me as 'cheerful'."

"Would 'curmudgeon' be closer to the mark?" She can't help teasing him. He doesn't seem to mind, and they both laugh.

As they dance together for the rest of the song, she marvels at how _easy_ it is. Not only to dance, but to talk, though they say nothing of real substance. He makes her giggle, telling her about the crotchety maid at the motel where he's staying.

"Thank you for asking me to dance," he says at the end. "I wasn't sure I wanted to, but…that was fun."

"It was," she agrees, folding her hands together. Now that they don't have something to do, her nerves have come back. "You're welcome."

He tells her good night and leaves. She finishes helping the others close the bar, and is silent during the ride back to the apartment she shares with Miranda. Her friend assumes she is simply tired.

Which she is.

And yet when she climbs into bed, all she can think about is the tall dark-haired man undoubtedly sleeping in the motel across from Rusty's.

She thinks about his deep voice, and black curls. She can't decide on the color of his eyes. How his eyebrows are so bushy, but they somehow fit him perfectly.

His broad shoulders, and how warm his hand was on her waist.

She imagines his hand ghosting up her back. His fingers grazing her cheek. Him leaning down, his lips touching hers, his warmth pressing all down her body-

Rolling onto her side, she covers her mouth as if he is there with her. A coil of desire bolts its way from her belly in between her legs. She sits up in the dark.

 _I want him._

 _My god, he has barely touched me and I_ _want_ _him._

 _What am I going to DO?_

She has had sex with Joe, but with no one else. There were a couple other boys when she was younger. Nothing more than kissing and fumbling with her bra ever went on with either of them.

Imagining Joe with her does not help her to stop thinking of the tall man. The way her hand felt in his.

Her desire frightens her.

 _The Cheerful Charlies will only be here for a little while longer,_ she tells herself. _HE will only be here for a little while longer. And then he'll be gone._

Eventually she falls into a restless sleep.

* * *

He is going mad.

 _She feels_ _nothing_ _for you,_ he argues with himself. _It was only your pathetic hoping that someone cared for you, too._

He tosses and turns that night. Thinking about the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed. Her soft hand in his. The curve of her hip below her waist.

He imagines her resting her hand on his chest. Sliding it up to his shoulder and around the back of his neck. Her mouth opening as they kiss, her tongue teasing him.

His dreams are blurred and confused. A soft lilt sighing _Charlie_ , and his clumsy fingers trying to unbutton her blouse.

When morning breaks, he is mortified to find his sheets are messy. As though he were a boy again with no control.

 _I want her._

 _Christ, I don't know her and I_ _want_ _her._

 _How am I going to look at her after this?_

He had been intimate with Alice, but her betrayal makes him doubt that anyone really wants him.

Every day, he reminds himself that he will only be there a few more days.

 _She has her own life. She doesn't need me, a pathetic man pushing thirty._

 _Just hang on until the end of August. I'll go home, and all this will be just a memory._

He can't decide if the thought makes him happy or miserable.

The waitress and he go through a different dance of sorts during the following days. Neither one mentions what had happened, but their conversations are short and awkward. He wonders if he was too obvious, too forward that night.

Something keeps drawing them together. She brings him water, and he asks how her day went every evening.

He has the feeling she is used to caring for other people. Not for someone to look after her.

He notices when he sits and talks to her that Grigg, the sweaty cook, and others leave her alone. She seems to be grateful for his company. She is always friendly to him, and it steadies his heart.

When he is not on stage, he wonders what she thinks of him. If she's only being nice. Then he beats himself up over caring about someone he will never see again.

 _But the way she looks at me…_

He learns from Miranda that her name is Els. Whether she has a longer name, or whether that is it, he can't find out without raising suspicion. Fortunately both Miranda and Tammy like to talk.

Els had a boyfriend but they broke up. No one else seems to know much about her; not that he tries very hard to pry. It makes him respect her more that she keeps herself private.

The last night the Cheerful Charlies and the Neal Sisters are at _The Hound_ is Saturday, the 27th of August. Hank is thrilled – their last three performances are sold out. Despite all four performers not being at their best, the audience gives them numerous standing ovations.

At Rusty's, Charles makes his way to the bar, where there is a stool reserved for him. He gets confused, however, when it is Miranda who hands him a beer.

"It's on the house," she yells for him to hear. He nods and sips it, trying to be polite to everyone who keeps interrupting him with congratulations and thanks.

The high of being onstage has slipped away.

 _Did I ever have it?_

It is something – or rather some _one_ he yearns for. Looking everywhere for the dark-haired waitress, he cannot see her. He starts to panic after an hour, and drowns it with another beer.

 _Oh well. Better get used to it._

 _After tomorrow, you'll never see her again._

 _If I had known yesterday was our last day, I would have…_

 _What?_

 _What_ _ **would**_ _you have done? And what is this about 'our' last day?_

 _Were you ever together?_

The Eagles, Bread, and The Bee Gees blare across the room in turn. None of the songs mean anything to him. He wants to go home, and forget he ever came here.

"How Deep Is Your Love" plays in the background.

 _And the moment that you wander far from me_

 _I want to feel you in my arms again_

 _And you come to me on a summer breeze_

 _Keep me warm in your love, then you softly leave…_

Someone slides a glass of water in front of him. He blinks, the heat and noise making his head muddled.

"I'm sorry I'm late," her voice breaks through the din.

And there she is. Standing just on the other side of the bar.

This kind, young, strong woman he somehow feels as though he's known forever.

"You…you're here," he stares at her.

"I'm here," she smiles. "Late, but here. Drink your water. Miranda told me you had _two_ beers tonight."

"I did." The corners of his mouth turn up, and he leans forward. "Don't tell anyone, but I much prefer wine."

She cocks an eyebrow. It is sexiest thing he's ever seen, and all the blood in his body rushes in between his legs. He has to force himself to concentrate on what she's saying.

"Why didn't you say something before now?" she asks. "I could have arranged for you to have something different tonight." She starts to speak again, but is interrupted. He waits while she gets a drink for another man.

"Are you telling me," he says as quietly as he can when she returns, "That you could have persuaded Rusty to sell wine?"

They both know the bad-tempered balding man cares for nothing in his bar except for cheap beer and whiskey.

"No," her eyes dance. "But his mother has sherry at home."

Charles cracks a smile. "No, thank you. If he gets his personality from his mum, I would much prefer to drink water here. The company is better."

As the words leave his mouth, he realizes what he's said. He quickly takes another sip from his glass, but not before seeing her blush red.

She does turn his direction a few minutes later and smile at him. He chokes on his water.

The crowd, unsurprisingly, stays late - Grigg, the Neal sisters, numerous audience members, and curious travelers eager for a party. Rusty's gradually empties, except for a few die-hard stragglers. Despite knowing he should be exhausted, Charles is fully awake.

Disco music has been abandoned from the jukebox in favor of songs more in line with his mood. He sees Els mopping up in one corner. When she stops, leaning on the broom, he gets up.

 _I'm leaving tomorrow._

She watches the couples dancing with a far-away look in her eyes.

He approaches her as the sound of an oboe wafts across the bar. His instinct is to ask her to dance, but instead he silently holds out his hand.

She takes it.

His entire body hums.

* * *

Is she dreaming?

 _You're just tired,_ she tells herself as she mops up. She is.

And yet she also feels…awake?

Alive.

Mam had called her in a panic just before she left the office to go to Rusty's. Becky had had another seizure. Her home had called an ambulance, and Mam was on her way to the hospital.

Elsie had sat alone by the telephone, waiting for it to ring.

Her heart started beating normally again after it did, and she'd heard Mam telling her that Becky was all right.

 _Life is so short. One day we're here, the next we're gone._

Then she had had to run to catch the bus to get to Rusty's.

Time seems to stand still when the other Charlie wordlessly asks her to dance. This tall, broad man; the man with the voice that goes straight to her center; the man she thinks of after half-remembered dreams. They leave her feeling rather ashamed of herself, and also wanting more.

When they take the floor, a thought makes her stumble.

 _Tomorrow._

 _He is leaving tomorrow._

 _Tonight is all there is._

He catches her by the arm, and she regains her balance. They begin to dance. Karen Carpenter's haunting contralto weaves a spell around them.

 _Long ago, and oh so far away_

 _I fell in love with you_

 _Before the second show…_

The clock shows a quarter past three. Rusty has shut off several lights, leaving them and the remaining couples to move on the dance floor like shadows.

 _Loneliness is such a sad affair_

 _And I can hardly wait to be with you again_

 _What to say to make you come again_

 _Come back to me again_

 _And play your sad guitar…_

It is pure instinct.

She pulls him with her into the hallway next to the front doors. The outside light paints the doorway and the pavement outside orange, but where they stand is almost totally dark.

Their hands are clasped together. Licking her lips, she lets go of his hand to touch his chest. Slides her hand up to his shoulder and to the back of his neck. Damp tendrils of curly hair wind around her finger.

Whether she draws his head down, or he pulls her closer, she doesn't know.

Or care.

Their lips touch. Their mouths open, and their breath is shared between them. He tastes like beer and something else far more intoxicating than alcohol.

She slips her tongue into his mouth as they press together, and he moans.

His stubble scrapes her face, and his big warm hands leave her hips to caress her bum, pushing her against his groin, but she doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't _care_ , because she feels, she feels, she FEELS - feels her heart hammering, feels her blood pumping, feels the heat from his body through his shirt and through her blouse, feels his soft lips on hers, his hungry mouth, feels warmth between her legs.

She chokes out a half-sigh, half-gasp. It's the little sister of a sound she has made exactly once in her life. And that was after months of sharing a bed with Joe.

 _Not like this man…_

She doesn't let herself think of the rest of the sentence. Breaking off their kiss, she leans back against the wall in the dark, very aware of his nearness.

"I…I'm sorry," he rumbles, breathing hard. "I should not have…you don't want…I should…"

Continuing to stammer apologies, he steps back one step toward the door, the outline of his broad shoulders visible under the harsh light. He sways a little, as though he wants to step closer to her again. His attempted gentlemanliness coupled with his clear reluctance to move away stirs her heart.

She doesn't know what makes her do it.

She grabs his hand.

"Don't go," she whispers. "Please."

 _Not without me._

He twirls her around, so her back is against the opposite wall. His mouth crashes against hers.

She can hardly breathe, but she needs his kisses more than she needs air. He seems the same by the way he's gasping.

 _Kiss me, just kiss me…_

They kiss and kiss, and kiss some more, mouths, lips, tongues searching. Wanting.

Finally he draws back and gently takes her chin in his hand. Gently, he brushes his lips against her swollen ones, short and sweet. A feather-light touch on the end of her nose.

She wraps her arms around him as far as they will go. Wanting, willing him closer again. He moves against her, his body pressed against hers, almost as hard as the wall at her back.

Nothing has ever felt so good.

His lips ghost below her ear, over a spot that makes her gasp. Instinctively she arches her back, a strangled moan erupting from her mouth. She can feel his erection through the layers of clothes separating them. They move together, and the friction makes her half-mad with desire.

"Oh my _god_ ," she gasps. His attention to her neck increases, and she lets out a moan that echoes in the corridor.

His mouth tastes hers once more, and he nips her bottom lip. Several people loudly exit Rusty's only feet away from them. They freeze, holding each other close until the door bangs shut again. He glances down at her.

There is a long beat of silence, only broken by their breathing.

"Come with me? Please? Just for tonight. I'm leaving in the morning." He murmurs into her hair, sounding nervous. His breath tickles her forehead. "I…want to be with you."

It touches her heart that he asks, when he could have assumed an answer. She has not been subtle at all.

 _No regrets._

She nods, and he leads her out the door by the hand. Her heart beats a tarantella.

* * *

They have to wait for a minute to cross the road. Time enough for him – and her – to reconsider.

Neither one does.

A lone car races past, its driver either eager to get home or eager to get to fun somewhere.

He leads the way, her jogging a little behind his long legs. But her hand is secure in his.

He loves the feel of her fingers laced through his.

The motel where he has been staying is across the road from Rusty's, catty-cornered from _The Hound._

He closes his room door behind him and flips the light switch. The overhead light flickers on, feebly. As he latches the chain, she moves further into the room.

After an afternoon and evening of the room being empty, it feels warm, the air thick. Despite the maid having been there, the scent of stale cigarette smoke that never fully leaves lingers. Along with the slight odor of old curtains.

He turns around and sees her turning on the bedside lamp. His grandfather's pocket watch sits beside it. He had meant to put the heirloom in the drawer before he left for the show, but he had forgotten.

She kicks off her shoes and looks down, biting her lip and clasping her left wrist in her right hand. "I…I've never done this before," she looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

If she is _trying_ to make him harder, she is succeeding beyond all expectations. He swallows. She is demure and bold, all mixed together.

A mystery.

"I'll be gentle." He catches her elbows and drops a kiss on the top of her head. She seems to like that, and her shoulders relax. "I promise."

 _I_ _will_ _._

He barely knows this woman, has only seen her past eleven o'clock at night and never past four in the morning, but he knows with a certainty he can't explain that he wants to cherish her.

If he wanted a mindless hour of banging some random woman, he would have hired a prostitute.

"I mean," she glances up at him, "I don't usually…go with someone. For a night." In the lamplight he can see pink blooming across her cheeks. "I didn't mean that I've never had sex before," she rushes out. "I wasn't brought up in a sack."

"O-oh," he mutters. Now he understands.

 _I've never had a one night stand either._

Is that what this is?

It isn't as though they just met.

He wonders if her ex-boyfriend ever marveled at the smooth paleness of her skin, how her breath gets louder as she slowly unbuttons her blouse.

How her eyes never leave his.

How she pulls her blouse over her head and drops it on the floor, followed by her bra. Then she covers up her naked breasts with her hands. As though they are nothing worth looking at, as opposed to something to marvel.

 _She is a work of art,_ he thinks wildly as he dots the freckles on her collarbone with kisses, glorying in the feel of her breasts against his chest. _A masterpiece._

His hands tremble so much he can't undo the buttons on his shirt. He's afraid she'll think he's a complete loser, and leave.

She doesn't.

She unbuttons his shirt, and pulls it and his undershirt off of his arms. In the meantime, he gazes at her in wonder.

The way she unzips his trousers and holds out her hand so he won't lose his balance as he steps out of them, is a detail that strikes his heart with her caring.

 _Is this love?_

It is more than a little lust, he is certain.

They clasp hands for a moment after they are both naked, their eyes taking in each other. She is right against the bed, the back of her legs against the thin comforter. The window unit air conditioner turns on, too loud for speech.

But what is there to say?

He smiles, pushing her shoulders lightly. She falls backwards onto the bed and immediately reaches for him. He falls forward, afraid he is too big for her. That his weight will be at most uncomfortable and at worse painful to her, but the way she digs her fingers into his shoulders and down his back as they kiss tells him that it is not too much.

That he is not.

"You are beautiful," he murmurs. He sucks hard on one pink nipple, then the other, making her gasp. Licking between her breasts, he wonders at the taste of her.

 _God, I could do this forever-_

His heart leaps at her moans and sighs. The way her hands tangle his hair.

She is not an actress. Not like Alice.

He kisses a line down past her navel, across her abdomen. She hisses when his fingers brush against the curls above her sex. Leaving lingering kisses along her thighs, he finds one freckle left lonely near her right hip. Another cluster on the underside of her left knee.

He raises his head, his big hands on either of her legs. His thumbs rub slow circles on her inner thighs.

"May I-"

"Yes," she breathes, lifting her head then dropping it to stare at the ceiling. Her chest is heaving. "Yes, touch me, yes _mo chridhe_ , _yes_ -"

He has never done this before.

Never lifted a woman's leg over his shoulder, never parted her inner lips with his mouth, never tasted her wet heat.

Never found and teased her nub with his tongue.

She yanks out several strands of his hair, swearing. Words from whatever other language she knows echoes in his ears. He pushes his tongue further into her folds and she screams. For an instant, he thinks he's scratched her with his stubble and hurt her, but she arches her back, pushing her sex further into his mouth.

The taste and scent of her is incredible. Rich, sweet, strong.

Intoxicating.

 _Better than cold water on a hot day._

Like before in the hallway, he can hardly breathe, but it doesn't matter. There is nothing but her, nothing but giving her pleasure, hearing her cry her release to the room.

She lays on her side, trembling, as he crawls up next to her. One hand is in her tangled hair, the other lies on a pillow. Her skin is flushed red from his earlier attention.

She is _gorgeous_.

"You all right?" He asks, cradling her face. He can't help the smirk on his face.

 _So that's what it feels like to pleasure a woman._

He wants to do it again. Over and over.

"Mmm-hmm," she murmurs, a smile curving her full lip. Her eyes are dark.

Sliding closer to him, she lifts her knee so he can slip his between her legs. She kisses him full on the mouth, seeming not to care that her wetness is still on his lips. Her fingers glide through his hair, touch his shoulders.

When he feels her steady hands caress his manhood, he almost comes on the spot.

" _Fuck_ ," he chokes out. She rolls onto her back as he scrambles to the bedside table. He fumbles for a condom in the drawer, and returns to her. Her legs fall open. Welcoming him.

"I want you," she whispers, then kisses his shoulder when he maneuvers his slick tip against her entrance. "I want you, all of you-"

Pushing into her, Charles can feel her body all around him. He goes in and out, slow, listening to her short breaths, trying to hold on. He thrusts again, harder, deeper, and she thrusts her hips _towards_ him _._

"FUCK!" He explodes. He pounds into her, all rhythm and tempo shot. She cries out once.

" _Oh_ ," she hisses through her teeth, gasping for air. "Oh-oh god, I'm going to-"

 _YES!_ His mind roars in triumph when she tightens around him. She screams even louder than before when he pulls out slowly, then thrusts faster and faster.

 _Yes, woman, yes, you who brought me water, yes you, beautiful stranger, you mystery who unlocked my heart._

He comes hard _,_ her moans and swearing spuring him on.

"S-so _good_ ," she breathes once, kissing his chest, her tongue swirling on his skin. "Oh fuck, _yessss_ -"

Her nails rake down his back, giving him pain, but he doesn't feel it.

His manhood pulses inside her body. He is sated, warm. She holds him inside her, her hands pressing against his back, and the gesture makes tears fill his eyes even as he drifts toward oblivion.

"I love you," he murmurs, kissing her damp hair.

"Mmmm." It sounds like a purr. A happy sound. They kiss, and he feels her smiling against his lips. He gently pulls out after he softens.

Getting up, she pads to the bathroom and he takes full advantage of watching her. Her stumbling against the door bandy-legged makes him smirk.

 _She enjoyed it._

 _I know I did._

When she returns, it gladdens his heart that she snuggles next to him. As if they have been doing this forever.

He falls asleep, his nose buried in her hair.

* * *

A crack in the curtains reveals bright day outside. She blinks, her eyes heavy and her mouth feeling as dry as fuzz.

Charlie's arms are warm around her. Too warm.

She moves the comforter aside, and the cold air from the air conditioner makes the hair on her arm stand up. She huddles against him for warmth.

 _My love._

She has not said it, not aloud, but she feels it.

 _Whatever has happened, I have no regrets._

She feels more alive than she has ever felt before. Almost like she has been sleeping for years.

As she comes awake, though, the reality of the morning will not let her revel in blissful memories.

 _He is leaving._

 _Today._

 _I have to go back and finish university._

 _What will Joe say?_

 _He doesn't need to find out._

Turning her face into her pillow, she wills her mind not to think of Joe.

The man behind her stirs. She risks more movement, to have a better look.

Hairy, wiry, eyebrows. Prominent nose. Dark hair across his chest and down to his belly. His long legs are curled around her torso, and his manhood is poking her in the bum.

 _He's not small, either._

He appears younger with his eyes closed, and the endearing picture he makes her catch her breath, and her eyes fill with tears.

 _You cannot stay with him. He is not yours._

 _Last night, I was his._

She knows she will remember it forever. The memory of their lovemaking speeds her heartbeat.

By the time he wakes, she is calmer. He murmurs good morning. They hold hands, just gazing at each other. Taking in last moments. Knowing that when they get up, they will not be able to ignore time.

"Els, what is your name?" He murmurs as he kisses her. "Your full name?"

Her voice is heavy from sleep, making her lilt more pronounced. "Does it matter?"

He doesn't press her, though she can see he is curious.

 _It doesn't matter. Not really._

 _He has his own life to live._

 _And I have mine._

"I have to check out by noon," he finally whispers. She hates that he has to remind her, and hates herself for being upset for the reminder. It is what it is.

"I know."

He kisses her hand nearest his cheek. "I'll make you some coffee, if you like. Or tea."

She drinks some of the tea he makes her. But when he goes to shower, she sets down the still-steaming cup and joins him.

For him alone the shower is too small; with another person, it is like a box. Their limbs tangle, water spraying everywhere. Soap runs down her front and rubs against his belly. Growling, he somehow lifts her in his arms.

 _No regrets_ , she thinks as they slip over, against, and inside each other again. Her arms drape over his broad shoulders. His elbow bumps against the tile wall, hers makes the flimsy shower curtain flutter.

"Can't," he gasps after a few minutes. The friction is just enough to tease them, but not enough for either of them to have enough.

 _When would it be enough?_

Water pools on the floor; the tiny mirror is completely steamed up. The cold air in the hotel room is a shock to her and she gasps, as does he.

They never make it to the bed.

His legs fail him and he tumbles to the floor, taking her with him. The press of skin on skin inflames their desire.

He gasps frantically, kissing beneath her upturned chin as they sprawl half sitting up on the ugly shag carpet. Then she straddles him, pushing him down. The way she plunders his mouth, claiming him, is something she's never done before.

Then she takes him.

 _I need you._

 _Now._

Her hips propel forward as she guides him into her.

 _Deeper…_

She writhes above him, her wet hair stuck to her face and dripping onto him. Their hands are clasped together on either side of his head.

 _God_ , the way Charlie feels inside her, his soft dark eyes peering up at her.

She needs him, needs him like air. It frightens her, even as she chases ecstasy.

 _He said he loved me._

Joe has never said that, though he has _said_ he's said it.

Charlie's hands ( _oh his touch, what his touch does to her_ ) press against her bum. He slides them up to cup her breasts. His thumbs pad her hardened nipples. A strangled cry erupts from her mouth.

It is the way he lets her find her rhythm, letting her take her pleasure, that is overwhelming.

As she shatters into another orgasm, she lets the moment overtake her.

 _Now, here, he is all I want. All I need._

 _You, this man who dances with me, you, you dear man who makes me laugh._

 _Who touched my heart long before you ever touched me._

 _A man who looks up at the stars, not just at the ground._

They roll over, their skin still wet. Neither one of them is agile enough, or experienced enough, to keep themselves connected.

As much as they want to.

He touches her everywhere except where she wants him, licking the beads of moisture on her chest, lapping her breasts. Nipping her belly and abdomen with his mouth and teeth. Marking her navel, kissing her hips, his warm, wet hands squeezing, teasing her.

She tries to make him move, pushing his head when he gets close to her breasts or her sex, but he won't behave.

He seems to enjoy driving her crazy.

" _Please_ ," she begs, pulling his hair. Surely HE wants more.

Finally, he slides a hand up between her thighs, his fingers curling into her sex. Her inner muscles contract.

"Oh-oh- _ohhhhhhh_ ," she cries out. His _touch_ – so light, yet the pressure just so, right where she _needs_ it – _again_.

His thumb rubs her clit, and she keens.

Tight screams explode from her mouth.

 _YESSSS_

She can't breathe, she can't think, she can only feel.

She's never heard the sounds coming out of her mouth before.

Until he withdraws his fingers. Her breath is ragged and she is disoriented by the loss of contact. He kneels astride her on the floor, his eyes wild. He joins them fully again, thrusting slow, then suddenly fast, just at the right spot.

She sees stars.

"Y-e-e-e-s-s," she shrieks. She grips his torso tighter with her knees and presses down on his wide back. He thrusts deeper into her, growling.

 _Oh god YESSSSSS_

He bellows, the sound vibrating in her ears and through her body.

Over and over they come together. Dimly, she thinks she cannot _possibly_ feel any more pleasure.

And then she _does._

 _What is he doing oh god mo ghraidh fuck_ _ **yes**_

He spills into her with a roar. She has heard of people having near-death experiences, how their entire lives flash in front of them.

It feels like the reverse to her, like all of her life is condensed into this moment.

No regrets, holding this man inside her as he takes her, kisses her, makes her _feel._

Somehow he unlocked her heart.

 _He is the key._

She weeps, caught up in the intensity of the moment. It is too much, and not enough; all coherent thoughts vanish. Her voice spirals into a scream again. She cannot understand how he makes her feel _so good._

His shouts echo with her high-pitched keening.

They lay sprawled on the floor, damp from the shower and sweat.

She feels drunk. Sated. Her throat is so dry it hurts.

She never would have thought it possible, not on the uncomfortable floor with the air conditioner blasting away, but she falls asleep in his arms. For how long, she is unaware.

He kisses her awake, his soft lips fluttering on her eyelids.

She runs her fingers over his brow, down the side of his face. When she kisses him slowly she knows it is the last time.

He knows it, too.

They get up in silence.

* * *

She showers again while he gathers his things. He does not, does _not_ want to leave, does not want to leave her, but the clock ticks towards noon, and his father and his job and real life beckons him.

He is very grateful that Grigg and the others have already checked out. His former best friend left a short note at the front desk for him.

 _Charlie,_

 _Thanks for the summer. I'll call you when we get back home._

He knows Grigg won't. The man is a flake, and he's with Alice now – what would they have to talk about?

In the parking lot, in the harsh brightness of a hot late August day, he tells the waitress goodbye. She has blue eyes. They suit her, he thinks.

He wishes he knew her full name, but he doesn't want to ask her again.

 _It doesn't matter._

They hug, a tender embrace. She holds him firmly. But not too close.

"Take care of yourself," she says. "I…had a good time." She blushes, biting her bottom lip. He resists the urge to kiss her again.

"Me too. I won't forget you. Thank you…for everything." He whispers. "I will come back this way again. I promise."

He doesn't know why he says it.

 _We only shared a night._

 _I have my life, and she has hers._

The waiting bus is almost full. It takes him several minutes to maneuver his luggage and large frame down the narrow aisle and to find a seat near the back. By the time he sinks down and looks out the window, he is sure she will be gone.

But she isn't.

She gives him a single wave, and he waves back.

The bus rounds a curve in the road.

She is gone.

As he drifts to sleep, his large head against the window, her scent lingers on his shirt.


	3. Saying Goodbye

**A/N: I really do have the most appalling timing, fic-writing wise. No sooner had I started this one when my work life went crazy, and my writing time went down to zero. And then there were the holidays, and traveling, and etc. etc. etc.**

 **The irony is I wrote most of this chapter over a week ago. Before one of my real-life mentors suddenly died, and a young man from my church who'd been fighting cancer lost his battle.**

 **So last week was 1) Monday, Gary's funeral; and 2) Tuesday, the visitation for Adam. The former hurt on a personal level, and the latter was absolutely crushing, simply seeing Adam's parents' grief.**

 **I put up a video on Tumblr earlier today (Sunday) that is a rendition of "Nearer, My God to Thee." It's by Vocal Point, a men's choral group from BYU, and, if I'm remembering this correctly, the BYU men's chorus. Go take a listen, if you like.**

 **This next chapter got away from me, big time. So much that I split the chapter. So you're getting two. It's all mostly from Charles's perspective. What happened to him after the flashback in 1977 is explored here. It's a LOT of angst. Just a few notes:**

 **In this story, James and Patrick Crawley, Robert's cousin and his son, are still alive. I don't plan on them showing up in the story much, but they're around. Just so you're aware.**

 ***John Darnley is a character in Downton Abbey. In canon, he's a neighbor of theirs who has to sell his estate. In this story I made him Sybil's godfather. I don't think he has any other connection to the family in canon, other than Daisy yelling at him in Season 6.**

 **Charles's life choices in the flashback are probably not very realistic, even for the late '70s/early '80s. But I wanted to take him to the depths, to give him a situation where a modern Charles Carson would be ashamed for others to know about his life (unlike the Charles Carson in canon, who didn't want anyone to know he'd been on stage - it's not so shocking now). Often when I write, I have the worst stuff happen to my characters first. It can only get better from here. I hope.**

* * *

 _ **December, 2017**_

"Yes, you still have time to make that trade. Before the end of the year," Charles explains patiently. The cold seeps through his office window behind him. It makes him shiver.

 _I never have liked the cold._

 _Not for a long time._

He gets up, still listening to Mr. Rodanski on his headset. "Yes. I can arrange the trust…oh, Connor turned 18 last month? Right. I'll make a note of that."

Working is not what he wants to do. Not today.

But it feels good in some small way to do something normal, even as the weight gets heavier in his chest.

The call ends and he sees Beryl standing in the doorway. "It wasn't…" she says, her face pale. He shakes his head.

"Paul Rodanski."

She nods, taking a breath. "Thank God. I'll tell the others. They jump every time the phone rings."

"Mrs. Patmore…Beryl," he says, trying to be gentle. They don't often call each other by their first names at work. She looks up at him, unshed tears in her pale blue eyes. "The call _will_ come today. The hospice nurse was very clear yesterday evening."

"I understand. I'm glad you were there," she whispers. "I was a bit surprised to see you come in this morning, to be honest."

"Her family is with her now," he swallows past the lump in his throat. "And…I told her goodbye last night. I left nothing unsaid."

"I'm sure you did. But you're her family, too." Beryl pats his arm and walks out.

Taking off his headset, he wanders over to the window to stare out at the grey afternoon. The light is dull, and some cars already have their lights on.

White, grey, black. No shadows, he thinks. If there had been even a hint of sun, there would have been something.

 _Even the sun is in mourning._

His mind goes back to the night before. His last visit to the hospital.

" _I love you," he whispers in Sybil's ear. He isn't sure if she hears him, but the nurse said that she likely can. "You are the bravest person I've ever known. Don't worry about the baby, or Mr. Branson…Tom," he smiles. "We'll take good care of them. You go," his voice begins to break. "You go on…you've fought for a long time. It's all right._ I'll _be all right…I won't forget you. Not ever. I love you, sweet girl."_

His desk phone rings, startling him.

The number calling is Matthew's.

His fingers feel like lead as he fumbles to pick up the receiver. "Hello?" He asks, completely forgetting to be professional.

" _Carson, it's Mary."_

The second he hears her voice, he knows.

" _She's just gone. About a half hour ago…I wanted to tell you myself."_

"Thank you," he mumbles, pinching his nose, hot tears coming to the surface. The weight leaves his chest. Relief that she's no longer in pain, terrible sadness that she is at last gone, concern for her loved ones; all tumble over each other in his mind. "H-how's Tom? And your parents, and Edith?" He sniffs. "What about you?" Wetness runs down his cheek.

" _Not good. Here's Matthew."_

She is abrupt, and he is fully aware of his goddaughter's usual calm and reserve breaking.

Matthew does not talk long. He tells Charles that they're all going to gather at Robert and Cora's later, and that he's welcome to join them.

"How's Mary?" Charles can't help but ask. There is a brief pause. It tells him everything.

"Oh, you know Mary," Matthew says finally. "She's never down for long." He clears his throat. "But she's going to be very…fragile for a while. She loved Sybil very much. She'll need you."

 _And I think you'll need her too,_ Charles hears what the young man is not saying to him.

"I'm very glad she has you to lean on," he says. He means it.

With Robert and his young cousin Patrick out of the office, there's only Beryl, Daisy, Sarah O'Brien, and the young financial advisor there, Atticus Aldridge. Atticus has been dating Rose, another cousin of the Crawleys. Charles wonders if he already knows the news.

Nevertheless, he gets them all together and tells them. They all look shocked, despite knowing the inevitable was coming.

 _Death is always final._

"Is there anything we should do, Mr. Carson?" Daisy asks softly.

It takes all of his willpower to answer her without breaking down. "Carry on, Daisy," he wobbles. "As we all must."

For once, Sarah has nothing to say. Atticus looks simultaneously confused and heartbroken. Tears are running down Beryl's face, but she only dabs at her cheek with a Kleenex.

"Anyone who wants to leave for the day may do so," Charles says. "You'll be paid for your time."

 _None of them will want to stay. All of us are affected by this._

As he goes back into his office, Daisy cries in Beryl's arms.

He leans against the closed door, wishing desperately there was someone he could turn to for comfort. His grief is raw. He knows from previous experience that it will never go away fully, but will linger.

Despite the solid presence of his office door, he does not feel steady at all.

* * *

He drives to Robert and Cora's house after getting a text from Rosamund. The family was leaving the hospital. The funeral home had been called, and Sybil had been taken away.

He's very glad they invited him to come over.

Being alone in his grief is the last thing he wants.

After putting in the code to open the garage door, he turns on every light he can find on the ground floor. The late autumn day is already growing dark. Checking the thermostat, he turns the heat up, too.

He's emptying the dishwasher (just to be doing something, anything), when the garage door goes up.

 _It's them._

But it is not Robert and Cora, or the girls.

Violet looks older than he has ever seen her. Every line seems to be etched on her face.

"Oh Carson," she sighs, taking his outstretched hand. "We've seen some troubles, you and I. But nothing worse than this."

"Nothing could be worse than this," he whispers.

 _Nothing._

She seems ready to buckle, swaying on her feet. He helps her to a chair near the kitchen island, and she sits down heavily, her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake.

Neither of them speaks. He gets her a glass of water.

A few minutes later, when the garage door opens again, there is the sound of a car pulling in. Violet wipes her eyes and nose with a tissue. Standing up, she greets her family with exquisite gentleness and dignity.

 _They will never know what she looked like moments before they arrived,_ Charles thinks. _How shattered she really is._ As ever, he is impressed by Violet Crawley's ability to see a situation and react in ways that show little, if anything, as to how _she_ really feels.

It is not the first time he has witnessed it.

* * *

It doesn't feel right when Robert tells Charles he wants him to stand with the family to greet mourners before the funeral.

It is an honor enough that they asked him to be a pallbearer.

"You are family," he says. "I am not – I'm very close to all of you to be sure, but-"

"Sybil loved you," Cora says thickly. "You were very dear to her…you met her only hours after she was born, and were there constantly during her last days."

"Stand with us, Mr. Carson. Please." Tom adds, his eyes red.

He cannot argue with Sybil's devastated husband.

One of the first to arrive is Gwen. Charles is glad to see his former employee; he was not thrilled when she left, yet he is glad now to hear she's doing well.

"I'm taking my boards in the spring," she says when he asks. "I never would have got this far if it wasn't for Sybil. She encouraged me to apply for the nursing program in the first place, and gave me support all the way through."

She swallows and looks away, towards the flowers that have been placed in the narthex of the church. There's so many, an usher has had to place some arrangements on tables by the doors. There is a large arrangement from the hospital where Cora is head of HR; another from Tom's school; smaller ones from individuals and families. Charles's eyes drift past several lilies from General Daniels, Robert's former commanding officer, and past a wreath from a Mr. Joe Burns and Family.

"So many people loved her," murmurs Gwen.

"They certainly did."

A line of mourners begin coming in, a steady stream. Beryl comes in later than Charles expects.

"Kate called right when I was about to leave. Her car wouldn't start this morning. I had to go over there, you know how my sister is…well, I'm here now."

She is clearly frazzled. She calms after a minute, the subdued atmosphere having an effect on her as well as on everyone else. After she goes through the line, giving the whole family her condolences, she comes nearer to the door to look at the flowers.

Charles thinks her hovering nearby is also her way of trying to support him. He has been close to Robert and the Crawley family for many years, longer than he's known Beryl. But despite her rough edges, he knows she cares about him.

Daisy arrives with her father-in-law, Bill Mason. She and Beryl share a fond hug.

It is getting nearer to the start of the funeral, and Violet has already gone into the church. Those still in the narthex huddle in groups, talking in low voices.

"It's a terrible thing, a young person dying. And leaving behind that precious baby too," Bill says to Charles and Beryl after going through the line. "Daisy told me Tom's going to raise little Sybbie right. He'll make sure she knows what kind of woman her mum was."

"What's wrong?" Beryl asks Daisy when she joins them, followed by Gwen.

"Nothing," the dark-haired young woman says, her eyes wide. "It's just – Tom's asked me to be a pallbearer."

"That's a lovely thought, Daisy," Bill gives her an encouraging pat on the back. "She was a good friend of yours. I remember you telling me about that cooking class the two of you took, how much you both laughed…"

"But why did he ask you? I thought there were eight pallbearers already," Charles breaks in, a hint of impatience in his voice. "I hope you didn't impose on Mr. Branson. Not _now_."

Beryl glares at him, but he ignores her.

"She didn't impose!" Gwen defends her.

"I'd never do that. I swear, Mr. Carson," Daisy nods, tucking a stray hair over her ear. "He only asked me just now because one of the pallbearers who was supposed to be here isn't. They needed someone else."

Letting out a breath, Charles calms a little. Order and organization mean a lot to him at normal times, never mind times of high stress. It's unfortunate that Sybil's husband was forced to deal with an issue like an absent pallbearer. "I see," he says, glancing around the emptying narthex. "Who couldn't be here, though? I was put in charge of the pallbearers, and I thought all of us were here."

 _Matthew, me, Patrick Crawley, Sybil's godfather John Darnley*, Mary, Edith, Gwen…_

"Anna isn't here," Gwen clicks her phone off and puts it into her purse. "Anna Smith," she says to Bill's unasked question. "She's closer friends with Mary, but she and I met through Tom, and she became really good friends with Sybil. Sybil was the one who introduced her to John Bates, too."

That reminds Charles of why he thought all of them had arrived. "I saw Mr. Bates come in a long time ago. I would have thought they came together."

Gwen nods, her eyes sad. "Usually, yes. But her dad's taken a turn for the worse. She texted me early this morning…and she told Mary that he likely wouldn't last more than another day or so."

"Is it that bad?" Beryl gasps. "I don't know her really, just what I've heard from Mary, but I thought he was getting better?"

"The bone marrow transplant didn't work," Gwen says. "The cancer came back, and now it's only a matter of time."

They see the ushers getting ready, and they go into church.

The service is a mixture of non-conformity and convention. Friends of Sybil perform a short skit in tribute to her, reflecting on her life and her effect on them and others. There is a recitation of the 23rd Psalm, and a traditional sermon. While a flutist plays a solo rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", Charles looks at the bulletin.

His belly clenches reading the title of the recessional hymn.

 _Of all the songs she could have picked, why THAT one!?_

He has no choice but to get up with the other pallbearers at the end. A men's choir lines the walls of the sanctuary and gathers at the back.

They begin to sing as the pallbearers approach the coffin.

Charles is surprised to hear what sounds like Latin. Then a tenor begins singing the familiar words of the old hymn.

" _Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee_

 _E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me…"_

As they lift the coffin, gripping the handles, the men's choir sings the Latin words in a faster rhythm beneath the soloist. Most of the words Charles cannot catch (and he doesn't really try, since he is focused on keeping the coffin level), but he knows he will never forget them.

" _Excelsior, excelsior, excelsior…_

 _Still all my song shall be_

 _Nearer my god, to Thee…"_

There is a distinctly joyful vibe to the usually solemn hymn. A thought brings tears to Charles's eyes.

 _ **This is so like her…honoring tradition and her family, and yet being wholly herself.**_

 _ **She was always hopeful. Even at the end.**_

" _Angels to beckon me_

 _Nearer my God, to Thee_

 _Nearer my God, to Thee_

 _Nearer to Thee…"_

Mary's shoulders are straight in front of him. Charles knows what her expression is, though all he can see is her back.

He knows it mirrors his own, and everyone carrying Sybil, and everyone looking on.

One of anguish, and grief.

And love.

" _Or if on joyful wing, cleaving the sky,_

 _Sun, moon, and stars forgot_

 _Upwards I fly_

… _Excelsior!"_

* * *

He cries during the burial. Silently, his head bowed. He moves a little behind John Bates, hoping the man's broad shoulders will keep too many people from seeing him.

Of course Beryl sees him.

"Don't go home," she gets to his side as he's about to open his car door. "Not yet. The girls, Mr. Mason, and I were going to get something hot to drink. Why don't you come, just for a little while?"

He doesn't want to. He wants to go home, open a bottle of Pinot Noir, and get drunk for the first time in decades.

He wants to drown the memory of the hymn, and everything it has stirred up.

But Beryl's standing there in the freezing cold waiting for his reply.

"All right," he hears himself say. "Just for a bit."

It seems incredible to hear Christmas music, to have lights and decorations strewn all over Starbucks, to see other people laughing and having a good time. The five of them huddle in a corner clutching their drinks, not saying much.

Mr. Mason and Daisy leave first. Gwen chats for a while with Beryl. The two women mostly have a catch-up, as neither of them seem keen to dwell on their grief. Then Gwen gives Beryl a hug, promising to stay in touch.

"Goodbye, Mr. Carson. It was good to see you," she says. She smiles at him, but her eyes are concerned.

"Thank you Gwen," he says numbly. "You too."

Charles and Beryl sit in silence. He stares at his steaming mug. Beryl turns her cup round and round in her hands.

Out of habit, Charles takes his pocket watch out and opens it, checking the time.

"That belonged to your father, didn't it?"

"It did. It was his father's before then. Granddad bought it in 1912…it's over a century old."

"And it still works? Well done. Not many people have things that old that still work." Beryl sips her tea. "You've taken good care of it. Your dad would be happy to know you still have it, I'm sure."

His throat closes up.

 _An old watch doesn't matter._

 _I failed him when it mattered most._

 _I promised to take care of things, to help him._

 _I failed._

 _I promised Els I would come back._

 _I never did._

Sybil's voice whispers in his memory.

 _I promised her, too,_ he thinks.

He can't bear the thought of breaking another promise. Even if she will never know if he kept it or not.

"Mr. Carson?"

Beryl leans forward. The same flicker he saw in Gwen's eyes is in hers. He glances to his left, at the darkness outside the window. The light above his head makes it possible to see his own reflection.

His eyes are sunken in, and every line is visible on his face.

He doesn't recognize himself.

 _I'm an old man._

 _A sad, tired, lonely old man._

He drinks the rest of his tea too fast. It's still hot, and it burns his tongue. "I'm all right, Mrs. Patmore," he says, convincing neither of them. "Just tired."

Under the streetlight outside, tiny flakes of snow are fluttering down. Mannheim Steamroller's "Auld Lang Syne" plays over the speakers.

"Be careful going home," he tells his friend. She nods.

"I will. You too. Text me when you get there, all right?"

* * *

Shivering, he closes the front door of his house behind him. Before he takes off his coat, he texts Beryl.

 _CC to BP, 5:03 pm_

 _I'm home. I'll call you tomorrow. Re-opening the office on Monday._

His phone buzzes as he's uncorking the Pinot Noir.

 _BP to CC, 5:06 pm_

 _Sounds like a good plan. Try to sleep, and I'll see you later._

He drinks one glass standing up, and another before taking off his shoes. He's lucid enough to hang up his black suit before getting out the battered cardboard box from his closet. Sitting on the floor in his white t-shirt and flannel trousers, he opens it with shaking hands.

For strength, he pours another glass and downs half of it.

 _Not wise, old man,_ he thinks rather blearily. But heat in his chest has given him enough liquid courage to dig into the box's contents.

He finds the yellowed bulletin from his father's funeral.

 _In Memoriam_

 _George Ernest Carson_

 _Born May 23_ _rd_ _, 1916_

 _Departed this life January 17, 1978_

On the back page is the recessional.

" _Nearer, My God To Thee"_

He bends over the box, feeling its side buckle with the weight of his body.

Sobs tear at his throat, his cries echoing in the sparse apartment. Still weeping, he get up, knocking over his wine glass.

He takes the picture of his parents off the mantle and collapses onto his recliner, hugging it to his chest.

 _All I ever wanted was to make you proud. Leave you a legacy that would honor you._

 _I failed._

* * *

 _ **September-December 1977**_

Jumping feet first into the world of real estate after a summer of theater is a shock to Charles's system. Still, there are familiar things that keep him steady.

A glass of wine with Dad in the backyard on Sunday evenings. His father's resilient optimism.

"The market's not good right now," Dad admits on one such evening in October. "But it'll come 'round. I know it." He puts a hand on Charles's shoulder. "I can't tell you what it means to me to have you, my son, with me. To help me. Morris is a good man, and a good business partner, but he's not my blood. Besides, his mother was _French_."

They both grin at each other.

"Everyone can't have English lineage," Charles swirls his wine in his glass. "What would we have to complain about, then?"

Dad takes another drink. "The weather?" They both chuckle. "How was your date with - Cindy? Cindy Everhart?"

Charles shrugs. "All right. She's nice, but I don't think she's for me."

"Too bad," Dad comments. "Mrs. Crownover thought she was your type."

Rolling his eyes, Charles sets down his glass. "I like your secretary, but she is not a good matchmaker. And besides, I don't _need_ to go on dates all the time. Just because Alice didn't work out doesn't mean I should grab the first woman that comes along next."

As he says the words, he feels a something akin to a splinter in his heart. It is not his ex-girlfriend that fills his mind now.

It is the image of a waitress with kind eyes and steady hands.

 _Oh, how she felt in my arms._

 _How she kissed me, like I've never been kissed before._

 _How she_ _ **sounded**_ _when I pleasured her…_

It's been weeks since he's seen her. He intended to drive back to the little town an hour north along the highway more than once, to stop into Rusty's. Ask after her.

But there always seems to be something that comes up.

Most often, his own doubts.

 _How do you know she'd even be happy to see you? It was little more than a one night stand._

 _You're making more out of this than was really there._

"…that Alice now, she seemed like a good match for you," Dad is saying. "Artistic and creative, yes, but your mum was too."

Charles's smile fades. "What appeared to be good, wasn't," he mutters. He tries not to sound too down. "You and Mum had a bond not many have."

His mother's paintings still decorate many rooms in the house where Charles grew up. His favorite is one reminiscent of Impressionism – a black and white dog in a green meadow, beneath a sky full of white clouds.

"You still have time, Charlie. I was like you when I was young," Dad says. "A bachelor at thirty. I thought I'd be alone forever. And then one day I saw your mother, and that was it. The same will happen to you."

Dad's certainty is something else Charles is used to. When he was younger, it annoyed him.

Now he's old enough to appreciate it – seeing it as one of his father's endearments.

They move on to lighter things. The phenomenon of _Star Wars_ ; the lack of local interest in cricket, despite its clear superiority over every other game.

They do not talk any more about the business, though Charles can see its effect on Dad. The wrinkles deepening on his face, his thinning grey hair, his fragility.

Despite George Carson's optimism, at times it is forced. His son can see it. The market is worse than slow. It's practically dead in the water.

Still, they press on. Morris, over Charles's objections, convinces the elder Carson to invest in a couple of retail properties.

Charles is glad when Sadie Crownover, his father's long-time secretary, voices her concerns as well.

"No, she isn't an agent," Dad admits later to Charles. "But she's been in the business so long she knows just about as much as I do. Probably more. But still – Morris has a point. We have to diversify."

Autumn turns colder. One windy Saturday in November, Charles finds himself driving north.

The whole way, he questions why he's going.

 _How do you know she wasn't just trying to be nice to you? How do you know she didn't just sleep with you for her own sake?_

There was something between them, he feels. It's enough for him to want to take a chance.

Still, he argues with himself the whole way there.

His arrival does not give him confidence.

 _The Hound_ is closed. Faded posters advertising the Cheerful Charlies peel from the front doors and windows.

Rusty's is barely more alive. A handful of local men sit at the bar listening to the USC-Washington game.

None of them recognize him.

The change is so stark after only a couple of months away that he wonders whether he dreamed up everything that happened between him and Els.

 _Maybe I did just dream it all up._

Tammy isn't working that day, and Miranda has apparently left town. The owner of the bar isn't in his usual spot. The strange man slouched behind the counter eyes Charles suspiciously.

"You a lawyer, or something? Asking questions-"

"No," he replies. "I just wanted to see Rusty for a minute. If I can."

"You'll have to wait till tomorrow night," another local says. "He went to the city for the weekend, to see his cousin."

"I heard he just might stay there." A man wearing a flannel shirt and several days' worth of stubble pipes up.

"Who can blame him?" grunts another. "This place is dead. After the factory's closed for good, the whole town might as well just dry up and blow away…"

Charles has to try. "What about the waitress. Els?" He asks, interrupting. They all stop talking and look at him.

"Els." Flannel Shirt scratches his chin. "Um…was she the blond? No, that was Barb-"

"Els had dark hair," a craggy-faced man snarls. "With a bit of red. No heat, though…cold as a fish, that 'un. I pinched her bum once, just for a laugh, and the bitch _slapped_ me! Told me if I touched her again she'd break my fingers!"

Rage surges through Charles. He clenches his fists, and feels his knuckles crack.

 _I hope you DIDN'T touch her again._

"So…so she isn't here now?" He asks, after taking a couple of breaths to calm down. It would do no good to start a fight with a stranger.

"No, she's gone too, and good riddance."

Leaving Rusty's, Charles feels a foreboding sense of dread at their downcast talk and the way they talked about the waitress. And a heaping shovelful of guilt that he hasn't driven up sooner.

 _Who else would know where I can find her?_

 _You assumed she would still be here!_

 _You should never assume anything._

The manager at the motel does recognize him. But he doesn't have the first clue where to find the waitress.

In the parking lot next to Rusty's, one of the locals tells him where Miranda used to live. He jumps at the chance to see the place. He knows she and Els used to share an apartment.

Maude, the landlady, is downright mean. "Yes, Miranda left two weeks ago! Are you deaf? Said she'd had enough of this place, said she was going someplace warmer. Who? Els? How do you know her? Oh, Rusty's…no, she left in October. Went back to live with her _mam_ , as she called her. What kind of name is that? Kind of snobbish if you ask me, I've never heard anyone call their mother that. She barely talked to me and Ned, hardly ever talked to Miranda either. The rent was under Miranda's name. The two of them split it, as far as I know. What? Els's last name? Something Irish… _no_ , Ned, it wasn't O'Rourke, that was your friend from school! Mackenzie. Els' mother worked with my cousin up at the school for a while. Cleaning lady…no, I don't have her mother's address. Do I look like a phone book to you?"

A man with a bald patch calls to Charles as he leaves. It's Ned.

"Maude's…worried," he frets, looking over his shoulder as if he's afraid his wife will see him. "That's all."

The factory in town, long rumored to be closing, is actually in the process of being closed.

"We've got two empty apartments, and no one to rent 'em," Ned continues. "Do you want either one?" When Charles declines, he sighs. "All right…just thought I'd ask. Oh! I heard you ask about Miranda…she's supposed to mail us her share of the last month's rent. She probably won't…but if she does, I can send you _her_ address. She and Els were friends; that much I know. Els always paid rent on time," Ned remarks rather wistfully.

Thanking him, Charles leaves feeling a little better. The man is clearly under the thumb of his wife, but he's honest.

He drives home, all the while thinking about the woman he had slept with in August. 'Cold as a fish'…well, _that_ wasn't true. Maybe to men who felt they were entitled to her.

He hopes he isn't in that category.

A snob? He knows she was working two jobs. And she kept her private life private.

 _I don't mind that, but some folks think if you don't share everything, that you're looking down on them._

Mostly he feels guilt.

 _I should have asked her for her address._

 _At least you know her name now._

 _How much does it really matter? She obviously had a life away from here._

 _And so did you._

 _And so you_ _ **do**_ _._

Still, he checks the phone book. There's a page and a half of MacKenzies in it. He rings close to twenty of them, his hopes sinking more when he either gets no answer or when the person on the other end of the line has never heard of Els.

His hopes crash completely when, remembering she was still a student, he contacts the university.

They have no record of her.

 _She didn't think you would come back, either._

 _Both Alice and Els…they're better off without you._

 _Best get used to it._

* * *

 _ **January 1978**_

On a freezing Tuesday morning in January, everything changes.

Dad isn't in the office when he gets there, which isn't unusual. But eight-thirty clicks by, and he still isn't there, which is.

He doesn't answer his phone at home.

Charles and Sadie drive over to the house. For the rest of his life, the younger Carson will remember seeing his father slumped over the kitchen table, still dressed in yesterday's clothes.

He is eternally grateful that death came quickly.

And that he is not alone to deal with the aftermath.

Sadie and her husband Harry help him through everything – the coroner, coming with him to the funeral home, helping Charles decide all the details that he is certain he's getting wrong.

 _What sort of casket would he like? How could I know that?_

George Carson will have a military guard, having served in the war, and he will be buried next to his beloved Margaret. Those decisions are the easy ones. As is choosing the final hymn.

"Nearer, My God to Thee" has always been Dad's favorite.

 _It isn't mine. It always reminded me of that book about the Titanic*, people drowning…_

The whole situation doesn't feel real.

He feels numb most of the time.

Except when he's overwhelmed with guilt. That, and not grief, is what keeps him awake.

 _I should have lived with him after I came back home. Looked after him. Mum would've wanted me to. I never should have done summer stock last year._

 _He didn't want me to, but he let me go._

 _Selfish, selfish! You were so consumed by what YOU were doing you didn't see what was going on in front of you!_

The funeral is well attended. Former navy friends of Dad's, his bowling team, neighbors, and clients make up most of the crowd.

Charles comes out of his reverie at the sight of one mourner. "Mrs. Crawley?" He blinks, taking the outstretched hand of the older woman standing before him. "It's been a long time…"

"Since Margaret's funeral," she says, her bright eyes meeting his. "I'm so sorry, Charles."

Seeing Violet Crawley brings back his childhood. He'd often run home from school and find their next door neighbor having tea with Mum.

 _She was a newlywed then._

Her children are both grown. Rosamund has graduated and is working for an auctioneer, and Robert is at university.

Charles thinks of his mother and father, of the life they all shared together, through most of the funeral.

 _It's just me now._

 _I've got to make them proud._

Shuffling after the coffin as the congregation sings, he feels a hand on his back. It's Sadie. She silently hands him a tissue and it's the first time he realizes he's weeping.

" _Tho' like a wanderer,_

 _The sun gone down,_

 _Darkness be over me,_

 _My rest a stone –_

 _Yet in my dreams I'd be_

 _Nearer, my God to Thee,_

 _Nearer, my God to Thee_

 _Nearer to Thee."_

* * *

 _ **Spring and Summer, 1978**_

He knows business is slow, but he had had no idea just how bad until barely a month after George Carson is buried.

"Why didn't he _tell_ me?" Charles whispers, sitting back in Dad's chair. Papers are scattered all over the massive desk, and there's more overflowing from the box on the side table.

 _Foreclosures, behind on payments. Debts, debts, and more debts…_

 _And he let me 'find my way'…start small, learning how to acquire clients. Instead of being honest with me as to how dire the whole mess really was._

"He meant to," Sadie says, wringing her hands. Lines deepen on her forehead. She glances at her husband Harry, who leans against the shelf. "Of course, the heart attack changed everything…"

"Why didn't _you_ tell me?" Charles half-shouts at her. Anger is breaking through his shock.

Anger, and fear.

 _I can't handle this._

 _Not by myself._

"There's more than just a couple of debts here," he continues, standing up. "I don't know how he was paying you, Sadie, any more than he was paying the rent on the office." He grabs one of the papers in front of him and his heart sinks. "It appears he was using _credit_ cards…"

"I didn't know," she whispers, wringing her hands. Her eyes fill with tears. "He always put up a good front; if I'd known he was doing that I would've told him to stop digging a hole!" Harry puts an arm around her, comforting her.

Seeing her cry gives Charles a stab of guilt. _This is not her fault._

"I'm sorry for shouting at you," he says. He sits on the edge of the desk, fumbling with the papers, glancing at the box. He has a very bad feeling there are more letters from creditors there. "I just…I don't know what to _do_."

"We'll help you," Harry gives him a half-smile. "You aren't alone in this."

Charles tries to smile, his chest feeling tight. "I'm glad," he sighs. "Now I understand more clearly why Mr. Morris White wanted to go off on his own."

His father's business partner has left the business. It had been an amicable parting; at the time, Charles thought his reasons were sound. The older man had been in business with his father, not with him.

"He had debts, too. And I know he's paid some of them. Maybe it would be easier if he had helped with all this too," Sadie starts shuffling through the box. "But no."

"That would not have been fair to him. It's all Dad's," Charles shuffles through the papers, nodding.

The rest of the winter and spring fly by. He sells properties that he can, and sets up payments plans to start paying back the debts.

On the interest, at least.

Even with Sadie and Harry's help, it's overwhelming. At times he feels like he's just getting his head above water. Then another creditor calls, or he gets a letter, or a pending sale falls through, and he feels the squeezing vice of panic closing around him again.

Morris does gift him five thousand dollars – Charles never asks for it, but the older man insists on it. "It's not a loan, either. We served in the Navy together, your dad and me," he says. "It's the least I can do. If I had more to give you, I would...we had our differences about the business. It doesn't matter now," he clears his throat. "But he kept a lot of the trouble from me. George was a good man, but he was proud. If he'd let on how much he needed help, I would've helped him in an instant."

 _He didn't want to appear weak._

 _I know how that feels._

It is hard, harder than Charles likes to admit, to accept help.

 _You're proud, too._

With Morris's gift, he limps along into June. Still the relentless calls and letters continue to arrive.

Along with disturbing calls from the IRS.

For the first time, Charles is angry at his father.

 _Being behind on mortgages or payments is one thing, but when you don't pay what you owe to the tax man, that means REAL trouble!_

He has begun to make some real estate deals himself, generating a little income. However, novice that he is, even he can see that it won't be enough.

Not nearly enough.

In the wee hours of a hot night in early June, unable to sleep, he contemplates the previously unthinkable.

 _Bankruptcy._

He has little choice.

Chapter 7 is brutal. Absolutely everything possible that can be sold is. It hurts Charles to sell his father's belongings from the office – even his vintage desk – but paying the rent is a stretch at best. He feels it's irresponsible to keep up appearances.

 _I can run the business out of the house if I have to._

It still is not enough. He is sinking, drowning, and nothing he does is enough to get himself above water.

It is during an afternoon in which he has sent Sadie home, and the house is utterly still, that he ponders his last option. The thought is like a punch to the stomach.

 _The HOUSE!? It's all I have! It can't be sold!_

But it must be sold. That much is clear.

It feels as though he is staring into a black hole, one that he cannot run away from. Sadie has her pension; that is small comfort to him.

 _At least her life will not be ruined by the business failing._

He cannot bring himself to admit the truth to anyone – even with the looming house sale in front of him.

But the truth is a weight on his heart that he cannot escape.

 _I have no business, no income._

He swallows his pride and sends letters to people he thinks can, or will, help him. It is easier to be honest on the page than in person.

Sadie does not know the whole truth, even as she and Harry help Charles pack up the house. He cannot bear to tell her.

He does not want her pity, or to give her an extra burden. He knows she and Harry have just taken her mother in. The old woman is suffering from dementia.

Most of the Carson furniture and items will be sold at auction. Even Margaret's paintings will be sold, reluctant as her son is to sell them.

It breaks his heart to see them go.

The Crownovers offer to keep several boxes of personal items for him.

"It's no trouble at all," Harry tells him the week of the closing. "Sadie tells me you won't have much room in your new apartment."

Charles's heart feels squeezed by an enormous fist. "No."

He keeps checking the mailbox, hoping against hope that someone will respond favorably. One Navy friend of his father's has a spare room to offer – but the man mentions his children and grandchildren so often, Charles gets the sense they are often always visiting.

He doesn't want to impose.

The last day his parents' house is his, the letter he sent to Grigg comes back, stamped "no known address".

Along with Grigg's returned letter, there is finally an answer from Miranda. He had forgotten that he had written to the former waitress from Rusty's. Asking for information about Els.

What Miranda's letter says is clear enough.

 _I was surprised to get your letter. I didn't recognize your name…_

 _Els hardly talked about her personal life, even to me. She mentioned you, once. I know it was you and not your partner because she specifically said "the taller Charlie, not the one with the mustache." She said you were one of the nicest men she'd ever met._

 _Whatever really happened between you and her is a mystery, and it's not my business to ask._

 _She left town suddenly in October, saying her mother needed help with her sister. I didn't even know she_ _had_ _a sister. If I had her mother's address I would give it to you, but I don't. I'm sorry. Her friends at uni were just as puzzled as I was._

To Charles, it is the last in a series of crippling losses.

 _Gone. Everyone is gone, and there's no one to turn to._

"I wish you'd let us help you move in to your new apartment," Sadie tells him as he puts his suitcase in his car. "Where is it?"

He can't look her in the eye. "Like I said…I'm not sure which unit I'm getting. As soon as I settle in, I'll contact you. I promise."

A voice screams in his head as he drives off.

 _You're too proud to tell her!_

"No," he growls aloud. "Where in the hell would they put me? The garage? This isn't my pride…my pride was me wasting away the better part of a decade doing _theater_ , instead of settling into a real profession. Chasing after whatever I wanted instead of seeing what I needed. Not that I ever got what I wanted," he spits through his teeth, feeling the shards of Grigg and Alice's betrayal, "Or found what I needed."

 _What I need now is a way to get back on my feet._

 _To get my life back together, little as it is._

 _Without inconveniencing those I know by my stupidity._

His apartment is in a run-down section of the city. Once it wasn't a bad place to live, but those days are past. Men huddle in the darkened lobby of the building and in the stairwells.

The elevator is broken.

Hauling his mattress and few belongings up the stairs, he hears life going on through the thin walls.

TVs blaring, loud talking. A baby wails down the hall.

Surrounded by people, he feels utterly alone.

* * *

 _ **Autumn, 1978**_

He finally finds a position. It's an overnight shift at a warehouse; he dislikes the hours and the work, but he has no choice.

 _I have to pay the bills somehow._

Hauling boxes, stacking shelves. Some of the men are downright lazy. The supervisor is hardly there, and Charles gets the sense that most of those employed are there because they are either relatives or friends of the man in charge.

Between him and a couple of others, they try to get work done. While the others sit idle, smoking cigarettes and bitching about their lives.

Women sometimes hang about the back door. Charles thinks the police should be called if they continue to loiter, but it is one of the few times the supervisor is there. The man refuses to do so.

"Not all of them are who you think they are," one of Charles's more industrious co-workers says as they stack boxes. "John's wife sometimes comes early, before the shift is over. She doesn't like being alone-"

"Not a bit," another interrupts. He glances over his shoulder, and gives Charles a knowing look. "My brother told me he sees Vera almost every night at the bar down on Second. Leaves with a different man more often than not."

"Does her husband know this?" Charles furrows his brows. He doesn't care for gossip, but John Bates reminds him a little of how he was before Alice left him for Grigg.

 _A young man who's more in love with her than she is with him._

The other man shrugs. "He might. John keeps to himself a lot. But I'm not telling him anything – he's got a temper I wouldn't want to cross."

Because the supervisor is not usually there, there is no one to intervene when arguments break out. Usually they're over nothing, petty disagreements and men holding a grudge against each other. But the effect of the arguments is to make the job harder to do.

The toxic atmosphere weighs on Charles more than the bills that he continues to get. It isn't helped that he does not get enough sleep during the day. His building never seems to settle into quiet. His neighbors on one side seem to be home 24/7, and shout at each other. The one on the other side plays his TV so loudly Charles can follow whatever show he's watching.

One early morning as he drives home from work, there is a police barricade several blocks away from his building. He rolls down the window, shivering as the cold air invades his car.

"I'm trying to get to 6th and Washington," he explains to the officer. "That's where I live. Will the detour take me there?"

The officer sighs, his breath visible. "You live at the corner of 6th and Washington? In the complex?"

"Yes," Charles says.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your building's gone."

Charles stares at him, not understanding. "What do you mean, _gone?_ It was there last night when I left!"

But the officer is right. His entire building is nothing more than a charred, hulking skeleton. Whatever the cause of the fire, it doesn't matter.

The local news covers it extensively. Charles mourns for those who died.

 _I have no home now. Nothing._

The few belongings he had there are gone forever. The furniture he doesn't miss, but he had several books that had belonged to Dad. And photographs of his parents.

Those memories cannot be replaced.

Fortunately, he had just gone to the laundromat the day before, so he still has most of his clothes in his car.

But not much else.

There is a shelter available for those who've lost their home, but he only gets as far as the door. It is full of women and children. Older people.

In his mind, they are the people who _really_ need a place to stay. It feels wrong to him to take someone else's bed.

He pulls off the road next to the river and watches the rushing water.

 _What do I have to live for?_

 _A job I despise?_

 _Carrying on, in the hope that someday, somehow, things will get better?_

He is not suicidal. And yet he feels an emptiness, a blankness of time continuing on.

 _If I had been in my apartment, and died in the fire, who would really care? My existence doesn't make the world better._

 _I'm just another lost soul, floating through life._

Parking in a rest area near several tractor-trailers, he sets an alarm clock to go off in four hours. He knows he cannot afford to be ticketed for loitering.

His dreams are filled with people from his past; long forgotten teachers, old friends from school. His parents appear and their faces are filled with disapproval, and disappointment.

 **I've failed.**

He wakes, gasping. With a groan he pulls his coat over his face, trying to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun.

 _Try to sleep._

The next dream is muddled and confused.

 _At first Alice is there, smiling and cheery. She has just walked off stage. He can hear the applause in the background._

" _Hello, Charlie," she tells him. Before he can move, she strips off her dress. "Don't you want me?"_

 _She starts kissing him, and they fall onto the ground in a heated embrace. But when he rolls over, she disappears, only to be replaced by someone else._

 _Els._

" _Charlie," the waitress breathes, bending to kiss him. She straddles him, wearing her white blouse that she wore at Rusty's, and her skirt. His body springs to life despite her clothing. "Charlie," she repeats, "Come back to me. You promised."_

 _Her rocking against him makes him forget almost everything else, but her words make his heart freeze. "I-I can't," he gasps against her lips. He half sits up, his mouth tracing a path from her jaw down her neck to her collarbone. She moans, seizing his hair. Somehow their clothes have disappeared. "I don't know where to find you."_

" _I'm right here," she kisses him again, hard, her teeth grazing his bottom lip. "Right here…"_

 _When she takes him, he yells, coming on the spot. She cries out._

" _Stay, Charlie-"_

 _There is a jarring, jangling sound, one that pounds into his consciousness even as he desperately tries to hold onto her._

" _No," he gasps, but she is slipping away._

" _Don't leave me-"_

The alarm jangles loud in the quiet, enclosed space of the car. He throws off his coat. Kicking the door open, he feels his jeans stuck to his legs. Sweat glistens on his face, and his bare chest.

He takes a shuddering breath, half-awake. Her voice, both desperately pleading and ringing with bliss, seems to murmur still in his ears. Running his hands through his damp hair, he glances at the alarm clock.

Five o'clock in the afternoon.

Thus begins his long routine, one which he can never quit.

He has kept a bank account open. It doesn't have much, even with what he had saved from the summer before. Every Friday when he gets his meager paycheck, he deposits it at the bank. Without his rent, he begins to accumulate some savings again, but the interest payments to creditors continue. His progress is slow.

He gets a post office box.

 _As if I'm going to get any mail now. From anyone that matters._

He quickly learns where he can safely park his car (and not waste too much gas getting there). He walks a lot from place to place during the days, either researching various jobs, or applying in person.

The hardest part, other than the sleep deprivation, is figuring out where to clean himself. He tries to wash up in a public men's room, but the first time someone walks in while he is shaving, it is extremely awkward. He manages to come up with a viable excuse.

 _What if someone finds out I'm living in my car?_

As guilty as he feels about not contacting Sadie, it is overshadowed by the thought that she's better off not knowing what's happened to him.

 _She doesn't need another burden. Losing the business wasn't her fault, anyway._

He doesn't know much of the world, but he is aware of how vulnerable he is.

Denial, he finds, is a powerful thing. Walking from place to place, even applying at places such as banks, gives him the illusion of doing something. Of belonging in a world that, in reality, he has no part to play.

As his clothes get shabbier, and his bank account dwindles, he feels a sense of panic settling over him.

Then comes the rainy morning in December when he gets to his dirty car after a visit to a local library. He turns the key to drive to one of his spots to sleep, and – nothing.

It's dead.

He sits there for a full ten minutes, trying in vain to start it. He screams once. It's an animal sound, one of rage and despair.

When his apartment building burned, he had felt the same panic, of everything ending, but this is different.

 _I have_ _nothing_ _left._

 _NOTHING._

He has no choice but to abandon the car.

For the first time, he tries to call Sadie from a payphone.

Their phone rings forty times before he hangs up. The machine spits out his quarter, and he redials.

This time he waits, counting through one hundred and fifty rings before hanging up again.

 _The first time I actually call for help, and there is no one there to answer._

He tries to call her several times over the next week. Only once does someone answer, and it's Harry.

" _Hello, Crownover residence_."

Charles opens his mouth to speak, and can't. The words won't come.

He hangs up.

 _Why is it so hard to ask for help?_

 _Because to all appearances, I'm a man in my prime. I should be hitting my stride, not looking for a handout._

 _There's others who need help more than me. Elderly people, women, children._

 _Not a man who lost his father's business and had to sell his mother's house and paintings to pay off creditors._

 _What do I expect, pity?_

 _Never._

* * *

Autumn lasts for five minutes, followed by a brutal winter.

For the first time in his life he is acutely aware of the cold.

He loved winter as a child.

Now he hates it.

He hates how no matter how many socks he wears (all of them), his feet are never warm. He hates how the cold complicates his life, as well as his ongoing job search – he manages to get an interview at an insurance broker's office, and by some miracle, has enough money to pay for a shower at a truck stop. But he cannot pay for a bus to get to the interview.

It has started snowing in earnest, and he shivers violently even after getting to the office. Someone has to ask him if they can take his coat.

When he leaves the interview, he realizes that his coat has a hole in it, and there was a stain on his shirt.

He doesn't get the job.

He finds himself doing things he never would have though he would do – lingering at the backdoor of a bakery, hoping to get day-old bread and donuts. He finds churches that provide soup lunches or fish dinners.

It is shameful to him that he can't contribute anything, even a quarter.

He is always hungry.

One blustery afternoon in December, trudging down the sidewalk with his shoulders hunched in a vain attempt to ward off the wind, he sees a hearse drive by. It is followed by a few cars. Their headlights are on at midday. He finds himself longing to be a part of the mourners.

 _At least they're warm in the car._

He joins men underneath an overpass to sleep. Some are clearly mentally disturbed. They don't trouble him. The ones that do are the ones that leave behind bottles and syringes; some start fights over god-knows-what at eight o'clock in the morning.

If a police car ambles by, they scatter.

Charles tells himself to keep his head down. He has enough troubles on his own without acquiring anyone else's. But late one afternoon near sundown, two men's harassment of a young Downs' Syndrome lad turns into real violence. They knock the lad down, kicking and punching him.

Until Charles intervenes, throwing one man aside, then the other. He helps the lad up. Tells him to run.

"Go," he gestures down the street. The lad stares blankly at him. He gestures again, praying he will understand. " _Run!"_

The lad stumbles off.

The two men get others. As they all attack him, Charles feels a sense of finality.

 _This is it. Dead in the street._

 _It's no more than I deserve._

Somehow, when the group has finally had enough, he is still conscious.

Barely.

He staggers towards the eastern part of the city, drawn by memories and his knowledge of where the main hospital is.

The edge of the parking lot is as far as he gets.

* * *

 **A/N: TBC...**


	4. From Charlie to Carson

**A/N: THIS IS THE SECOND CHAPTER POSTED TONIGHT. PLEASE READ CHAPTER THREE BEFORE THIS ONE.**

 **The song quoted so heavily later on is Richard Marx's "Endless Summer Nights". I'm...kind of obsessed with it.**

 **This chapter is dedicated to the memory of my friend Gary. I will never forget you. Rest in peace.**

* * *

Charles wakes under shockingly bright lights.

"He's awake," an unfamiliar female voice says. A flurry of other voices are talking, but he can't follow them. Someone touches his arm. It itches, and it feels like there's something holding him down. He blinks, then squints.

He's in a hospital bed, with an IV. A brown-haired nurse puts a cold cloth against his head. "How does that feel, sir?" She asks softly.

 _Sir. I'm no 'sir'._

 _I'm a homeless man who lives on the streets, who washes in sinks when I can._

He is aware of a smell that makes the bile rise in his throat. Garbage and dirt, mixed with antiseptic and ammonia.

 _It's ME._

Shame washes over him.

"All right, Miss," he mumbles, wanting to answer the nurse. "And thank you – who brought me in here? The last I remember is seeing the lights of the hospital."

He wants to flex his fingers, but can't. Squinting at his left hand, he sees them encased in splints.

"Two ambulance workers saw you collapse, and carried you in here," a blond man wearing a short mustache and a white coat comes up to the bed and takes his right wrist. "You're lucky they did. You've got a concussion, four broken ribs, three broken fingers, and a contusion on your right leg."

Thoughts swirl in Charles's head, but only one makes it to his lips. "I-I can't pay for-"

"You have no choice," the man says steadily. "It would be unethical to release you in your condition, no matter how much you can or can't pay. You're staying here for at least two days while we monitor you. I won't have you back on the streets."

Charles stares dumbly at him, recognizing the man's coat.

 _He's a doctor._

"H-how d-did you know I was-" he begins, tears stinging his eyes. It is not the physical pain; it is the knowledge that they all know.

And the knowledge that it has been his pride that brought him to this.

 _I should have asked for help, begged for it, instead of ending up here!_

"Mr. Carson, you are not the first man in your situation that I've seen in here," the doctor says. His blue eyes are not unkind. "And you won't be the last, I'm sure." He smiles. "There was a card in the pocket of your trousers – is your name Charles Carson?"

"It is," he whispers.

"I'm Dr. Richard Clarkson." The doctor holds out his hand. It takes Charles a moment to shake it.

 _Holding out his hand, as if we're meeting at a Christmas party._

"Mr. Carson, I don't want you to worry about _anything_ while you're here. Except getting better." Dr. Clarkson puts a comforting hand on Charles's shoulder.

In some ways, being in the hospital is an immense relief. He doesn't have to worry about where to sleep, or what to eat.

The pain is enough to deal with.

The doctor refuses to give him any more morphine during the second evening. "No more, Mr. Carson," he says kindly, but firmly. "I know your ribs are painful, but you are going to have to live with a bit of pain for a while."

It was a Tuesday night when Charles went into the hospital. On Friday morning, a nurse wheels him down the hallway and to the front doors.

Every time he moves, he winces. But now the pain is superseded by worry.

 _What NOW?_ _They can't keep me here forever._

 _I can't go back to sleeping under a bridge._

 _Not like this._

There is a car running at the curb. A brown-haired man wearing a ball cap and stubble on his chin gets out. He offers Charles his arm. Charles takes it, grateful for the assistance.

To Charles's surprise, Dr. Clarkson has followed him out.

"Thanks for coming, Darren," the doctor says. He grabs Charles's other arm, keeping him steady. "Mr. Carson, this is a friend of mine. Darren Mitchell."

"Hello, Mr. Mitchell," Charles says, wondering what's going on.

Darren cracks a grin. "Good morning, Mr. Carson. The doctor told me you're a very formal gentleman – I can see why."

"Darren has a place for you to stay," Dr. Clarkson explains. "You can rest and recover your strength there. I didn't feel right releasing you, without knowing you'd have somewhere to go."

Tears fill Charles's eyes.

 _I don't know him, and he's helping me._

"T-thank you, Doctor," he manages to whisper as they help him into the car.

"I'm glad to help."

Charles sinks into the passenger seat, feeling hot tears running down his face. He's aware of Darren and Dr. Clarkson talking outside the car. The nurse opens a door in the backseat and puts a brown paper sack on the seat.

"The doctor thought you might need some new clothes," Darren explains as they drive off. "I understand you had some belongings before you went into the hospital. I've got a friend at the police department who's got them."

The reminder sends a shiver down Charles's back.

 _Oh God._

 _My bag with my address book, my clothes…Grandfather's watch._

He has completely forgotten about it until now. The last time he saw it was the night he was attacked.

"How does your friend know it's mine?" He asks. His head pounds. It hurts too much to think.

"Besides the fact that your address book was in it, with your name on it?" Darren asks. He turns on the blinker, and turns when the light flips to green. "The young man who gave the bag to Officer Willis said it was yours. And despite his disability, he described you very well."

Charles's heart is full.

 _Surrounded by friends, without even knowing their names._

* * *

The place Darren takes him is a men's shelter.

Once, he would have stoutly refused to even enter such a place, thinking others must have a better claim on its charity.

Not anymore.

He is relieved to have a bed, a warm place to sleep, and the comfort of regular meals.

Darren runs the shelter with his brother and two other men. They were homeless once, too. They remember well what it feels like. The uncertainty.

And the shame.

Charles is shown the room where he'll sleep. There are two bunkbeds there. He is glad to have a bottom bunk.

"I'll try not to wake you when I go to bed," Henry Lang says, leaning against the wooden frame. "You just rest now. Me or Gary will come and get you when it's time for lunch." He turns in the doorway. "Darren said your name is Charlie? Or Charles?"

"Charlie is fine," he replies. Charles feels almost too formal, and asking the others to call him _Mr. Carson_ seems pretentious in the extreme.

Still, he finds himself calling his roommates by their surnames. It surprises all of them the first time – Gary says no one's ever called him 'Mr. Lee'.

"I'm not a fancy type," the older man grunts, pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. He's forty-five, and looks sixty. "Never have been, never will be." He does agree with Charles that men should wear suits more often. "I've got just the one suit. I always wear it to church on Sundays."

During supper, he educates the younger man on the rules of the place.

"We take turns cleaning up the kitchen and dining room," he says. "Every week, we clean the bathrooms and scrub the hallway." He snorts. "Most of the time I've been here, I'm the one that does that."

"Do the others not take their turn?" Charles asks.

"Oh, they do. But it doesn't look as good when somebody else cleans. The same goes for the outside. Once spring comes, if you're still here, I'll show you where the shed is. I trimmed the hedges last summer, and mowed the grass. Me and Lang re-painted the whole building, too. It looks all right."

Gary's industriousness surprises Charles. As does the fact that he, at present, doesn't hold a regular job.

"I drink too much," the man says softly, pushing his coffee cup aside. "I do well for a while, then…something sets me off again. My wife left me last spring," he says. "Said she'd had enough. I don't blame her."

Most of the men at the shelter don't talk about their problems. Or why they're there. It's a shared sense of shame, Charles thinks, despite Darren telling them there isn't anything to be ashamed of.

The week of Christmas, two other men arrive at the shelter. Both are veterans. One has lost his legs, and gets around in a borrowed wheelchair. The other seems to be unscathed.

But at dinner, he begins screaming nonsensically when Gary puts a steaming plate of food in front of him. None of them understand why until Darren flies across the room and gently ushers the man out, talking softly to him.

"Goddammit," Gary mutters under his breath, steam fogging up his glasses as he picks up the untouched plate. "I should'a known. Rice. He _would_ get here the night we've got Chinese food…Lang, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Charles's roommate murmurs. His fork is clamped so tightly in his fist his knuckles are white. His eyes follow Darren and the other man out of the room. "Fine…"

He goes to bed early that night. Charles is in the washroom shaving across the hall, getting ready for work. The sudden screams from the other room make him cut his chin.

Holding his hand against his chin, he hurries over to his shared bedroom. There are a few men hovering in the doorway, but they let him through.

"What's going on-"

The light's been turned on. Lang is thrashing around on his bed. Gary and another man grab him, trying to keep him still.

"Somebody get Darren," Gary orders. "Or Sam. Whoever's in the office. Lang," he raises his voice. "LANG! Wake up, you're having a bad dream!"

It is only then that Charles feels a chill run down his back.

 _He was in Vietnam, too. A prisoner of war._

Understanding breaks over him. Henry Lang looks so normal, so…put together. He has a steady, if part-time job, and, unlike Gary, is not addicted to anything.

"Noooooooo!" howls Lang, his arms swinging. His eyes pop open, wide. "God no, get me out! _Ouuuuuuttttttt!_ "

"It's just a dream," the man opposite Gary says, patting Lang on the back. "You're here, you're safe."

"Am I?" whispers Lang. He blinks, and seems to see Gary for the first time. "I-I'm not in Hanoi?"

"Not anywhere close to it," the older man grunts.

Lang turns his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "S-sorry."

"No need for apologizes," Charles says. He turns, gesturing at the two or three still hovering in curiosity. "All right, let's not crowd him, please."

He is surprised when he turns back to see Lang staring at him in horror. "It's me," he says, uncertainly. No one's ever looked at him like that, like they were afraid he was going to kill them on the spot. "You know me, Lang."

"You're bleeding." Lang swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Charles has forgotten about his chin. He dabs at it, and blood comes off on his fingers.

"Y-y-you're _Charlie_ ," stutters Lang.

"No, no," Gary interrupts, shaking his head at Charles's half-nod. "That's not Charlie, Lang. That's-that's Carson. You know Mr. _Carson_ , Lang. Tall man. Likes cricket and hot tea."

"Carson," mutters Lang. "Carson. Yes. W-we talked about chess yesterday, didn't we?"

Charles is still trying to get his mind around the strange turn the conversation has taken. "Yes, we did."

 _My name is Charlie. He knows that. Everyone here knows that!_

"It's best if you go by Carson. At least for now," Darren tells him before he goes to work. "The enemy Lang fought during the war was known as 'Charlie'. It was a nickname for the Vietcong, used by those in the military…when Lang and some of the other vets get flashbacks or nightmares, they often have a hard time separating reality from their old memories. I don't want Lang to be set off any more than he has to be."

"I understand," Charles says. "I don't want him to, either. Not anyone," he says, thinking of the other vet at supper.

Darren cocks his head. "You don't mind being called Carson, do you?"

"No. I don't."

He means it. There's another Charlie that works at the warehouse, and some of the men there have already started calling him by his surname, just to keep the two separate.

His first name conjures up too many of his own memories in his mind – of his long vanished childhood and youth. His dead parents. Even people like Grigg or Sadie, who called him Charlie and Charles, respectively.

 _It's better to move forward. My name IS Carson, anyway._

As he drifts off to sleep the following morning, the sound of his first name whispers in his memory, drifting into his consciousness. He sits up and bashes his head against the top bunk. The pain wakes him up completely.

 _Els called me Charlie, too._

He wonders where she is.

 _Wherever she is, I'm sure she's in a better place than I am now._

* * *

 _ **February, 1979**_

The year turns over into a new one. In many ways, Charles's life has not changed much. He goes to work at night, and sleeps during the day. The atmosphere at the warehouse worsens. John Bates has left, and the rumor is that he was arrested – for theft.

Charles isn't sure of what to believe. He is glad he has a stable place to sleep, and that his income, little as it is, is helping to discharge the rest of his father's debts.

Guilt gnaws at him. "I should find a place to rent," he says to Darren one afternoon, leaning on the mop. His voice booms in the men's room around them. "I'm not doing anything but taking up space here. Someone else needs a bed more than me-"

Darren puts up his hands. "We're not having this conversation. Not again, Carson…you've been here for barely two months. I'd much prefer you have a solid financial foundation underneath you before you even _think_ about leaving. Besides, Dr. Clarkson wants to make sure you're fully healed."

"I am," Charles protests. "He said as much during my last check-up."

"Well, he's still worried about your leg, and your hands. He told you to take things easier at work, didn't he? And you didn't listen."

"It wasn't that I didn't listen, I didn't have a choice." Charles huffs out a frustrated breath. "I couldn't sit idle, not like so many there. Besides, the supervisor doesn't like me, and he'd look for any reason to get rid of me…I have to work there until I can find a better job."

He has had some tantalizing opportunities. And he even had a decent job interview in January. But all for nothing.

"Don't lose hope," Darren reassures him. "As persistent as you are, your luck is bound to change. I just wish you'd let me call Sadie. Even if you don't want to. You know she's worried about you."

That makes his throat close up. "I know," he whispers. "I just…I'm not ready to see her. Or anyone I used to know."

Charles has received dozens of letters from his father's former secretary over the last few months. For a long time he simply took them out of his post office box and put them in a box in his room, unopened.

After Christmas when he did start reading them, they only made him feel worse.

 _Harry and I heard about the apartment fire…we called the police department, wondering where you were. I talked with an Officer Willis who told us about you getting attacked. But he didn't have any information about where you were._

That has been Charles's choice. The shelter is not legally obligated to give out its residents' names or identities, as all of the men are over eighteen.

 _Harry told me he thought you'd rang us after the fire. My mother died around that time…things have settled down now, but it was difficult. I'm sure you understand._

He does.

The latest letter, written in January, is one that he has re-read constantly.

 _We're not giving up on you, Charles. If you ever want to get in touch, you know where we are. Your friends will always be here for you._

A week later, he and Lang are having an intense chess game after supper when Gary comes into the dining room.

"Carson, someone's here to see you."

"In the kitchen?" He doesn't look away from the board. It could be someone from work. No one there talks about it to him, but he knows several of them know he lives at the shelter.

It's another reason why he wants to find another job.

"No," Gary says. "In the lobby."

As Charles goes down the hallway, he frowns, seeing the closed frosted double doors that lead into the small lobby. There is a room off of it, used as a general office for Darren and his brother.

Everyone who visits the shelter can enter the hallway; the building is not a prison. A thought makes him stop dead.

 _Unless the visitor is a woman._

He closes his eyes.

 _Sadie found me._

But it isn't Sadie Crownover sitting in a chair across from Darren.

It's Violet Crawley.

"Good evening, Charles," she says, as though they just saw each other the previous week. As though the last year has never happened and she's come by his parents' old house for a cup of tea. "You look well."

He finds his tongue. "Thank you."

"I'll leave the two of you." Darren gets up hastily and exits.

Charles sits next to Violet. He can feel her eyes boring into him, but he can't look back at her. He studies his fingernails instead. The cheap clock on the desk ticks into the silence.

"You are a stubborn man," Violet says. "More stubborn than your father, and I didn't think that was possible. And you are proud. Like Margaret. But I would have thought you'd keep in contact with Sadie, at least. She told me you'd promised her."

The crease on his trousers is exceptionally interesting. "I…didn't want to burden her." His voice cracks.

"And you thought by disappearing off into the blue that _that_ would make it better for her? She's been frantic, trying to track you down. Arthur and I ran into Morris White in December, and he asked about you, too. You may have English blood, Charles Carson, but you are not an island. What happens to you matters to a great many people."

The grey carpet blurs in his vision. The thought that people have been worried about him, searching for him even, is too much to bear.

 _Coward! All you could think about was hiding away from everyone. And all the while, they were searching for you!_

"How did you find me?" He whispers, wiping beneath his eye.

"It took several phone calls, as well as going into the Sergeant's office at the police station…I think Officer Willis is still recovering from me barging in there. He meant well, but I was in no mood to be thwarted by a junior police officer. I think he was terrified he was going to be removed from the police force immediately."

Charles stifles a laugh. His heart feels as though it has been cracked like an egg, with everything running out.

 _They care about you._

 _You've never been alone._

"He won't, not if I have anything to do with it," Violet continues. "But Officer Willis is not why I'm here. I'm here to take you home, Charles."

That makes him look her in the face for the first time. "I don't have a home," he mutters, his heart sinking again. "The apartment building burned. I assume Sadie told you I sold the house? Everything's gone, all the furniture, Mum's paintings…"

"I wasn't talking about any place you have lived," she says, a fond smile curving her lips up. "I was talking about _my_ home, mine and Arthur's."

"I can't impose on you," he says, all of his defenses going up. "It's going to be months before I've saved enough to afford rent and the other payments I still owe. And I need to buy another car...besides, Robert's still at university, isn't he? I can't take his room!"

Violet purses her lips. "As a matter of fact, my son is no longer living at home. So he won't mind if you are sleeping in the place he used to occupy. And I have no intention of setting a date that you must meet to live on your own again. I want you to get back on your feet, Charles. Or Carson, as they call you here. Would you prefer to be called that? I remember when you were a boy, you asked me to call you Mr. Carson for a time…you wanted to be like your father. Will you come with me now? Come home?"

Her reminiscing batters at the shards of his pride. But he still clings to it, to the vestiges of who he once wanted to be.

Even as he knows that young man, in many ways, is gone forever.

"You may call me Carson," he sinks against the back of the chair. "But I don't know if I can accept your offer."

She leans forward. "If you won't come with me for your own sake, will you do it for your mother's sake? Margaret was the closest friend I had…I doubt I shall ever have another like her." Her eyes gleam. "Please, Carson. Let me help you."

* * *

The other men cluster in the doorway as he packs his clothes.

"Keep the chess set," he tells Lang. "It'll get more use here."

He doesn't tell the man that the Crawleys have more than one set.

"Good luck," Gary hold out a callused hand for him to shake. "If you ever need anything – a paint job, electrical work, lawn care – call me. I'll give you a good rate."

"I know you will," Charles shakes his hand. "Good luck to you, too." He straightens up, picking up the duffel bag. "To all of you."

Leaving the shelter, he feels both sad and excited. As Violet turns out of the parking lot, he turns back once more.

 _Don't forget._

 _Don't ever forget._

* * *

Arthur Crawley, to his astonishment, is busy with the roast in the kitchen when they arrive. It is clear to Charles within a few minutes that Violet's husband has no idea where he's been for the last couple of months.

"He doesn't need to know," Violet mutters under her breath. Charles has insisted on setting the table. "Unless you want to tell him. I assume it is something you want kept private?"

Her raised eyebrows tell him all he needs to know.

She will never betray his secret.

Rosamund comes by once a week for Sunday lunch. The first Sunday Charles is there, she clearly is curious about his former whereabouts, but she is unable to get more direct answers either from him or from her mother.

"I would like to know what you think about Robert," she says finally, changing the subject. "I suppose you were shocked to find out he was even more headstrong and flighty than you'd imagined!"

Charles glances in Violet's direction, but she for once avoids his gaze. Arthur frowns at his daughter.

"There is a difference between being headstrong, and being decisive. Besides, I thought we were past all that. I, for one, like her-"

"Oh, of course you do," Violet interjects. "She's taken the responsibility of seeing that our son is responsible out of your hands."

"Out of _your_ hands, you mean," Rosamund fights a smile. "Really, Mama, she's not _that_ bad. A little rough around the edges, I admit, but she's hardly a girl Robert picked up off the street."

Charles is completely lost. "Who are we talking about, then?"

"Cora Levinson," Violet snorts and sets down her wine glass. "The woman who seduced my only son."

"Cora _Crawley_ ," Arthur emphasizes. "Really, my dear, she's your daughter-in-law now, surely you can accept her."

Dropping his knife, Charles gapes at the elder Mr. Crawley. "Robert got _married!?_ "

"They met in September, fell madly in love, and married at the courthouse just before Christmas," Rosamund says. "Mama wanted them to wait until June at least, but they were too…impatient."

"It's ridiculous," Violet argues. "Robert won't even be twenty-one until May. They're children, the two of them!"

"Cora's birthday is next month. She'll be twenty-two." Rosamund grins. "And speaking of children, it would not surprise me in the slightest if they have their first child before Robert is twenty-two."

Charles is utterly flabbergasted. He does not know Robert well, but knows enough of the younger man to feel he's made a grave mistake.

 _Rushing into a relationship before he's even done with university! And he might have to support a family soon!_

 _Why do people so often make such rash decisions?_

He is stopped short in his musings, with a vivid memory of a hot August night. Dashing across the road from Rusty's, hand in hand with a woman he barely knew.

Watching her take her clothes off in front of him.

 _Speaking of rash…_

 _Do you really want to pass judgment on Robert?_

 _Wait to meet his wife before you jump to conclusions._

The Crawleys are talking over each other. The conversation has moved on while he's sat thinking.

"…got an opening in the office," Rosamund glances at Charles. "It's not much now, but there's potential. The market can't stay stagnant forever-"

"Says the woman who got her degree in art history," Violet shoots back. "Why do you insist on talking as though you're an expert, when you know nothing about the financial markets?"

"Duke is teaching me a lot-"

"Oh, I'm sure _that's_ how you spend most of your time with him. Discussing economics!"

"Mama, I am not Robert. Yes, I'm fond of Duke – _Marmaduke_ Painswick," Rosamund explains to Charles. "He's a broker. He came to the auction back in November to buy some artwork for his office and we started talking."

Violet sniffs. "Yes, and moved quickly on from talking to much more than that."

Her daughter rolls her eyes. "Can we _please_ keep this conversation civilized? You blame Robert for thinking with body parts other than his brain, and you seem very keen to paint me with the same brush! It's hardly fair-"

Arthur pinches his nose, looking stressed. "All I wanted was a quiet Sunday lunch." He looks across the table at Charles's bemused expression. "Are you sure you want to stay here?"

Despite the mother-daughter bickering, he does.

* * *

 _ **March 1979 – April 1979**_

Rosamund's boyfriend, Marmaduke "Duke" Painswick, offers Charles an interview at his office. Charles is grateful for the opportunity, though he is upfront with the man. He tells him he knows little about the stock market, or managing accounts.

"My father was a real estate agent," he explains. "I tried to run his business, but it didn't go well. I'll do my very best, working for you and your partner."

It is a comfort to Charles that Mr. Painswick is nearer his age. He would be uncomfortable working under someone younger.

 _Not that I have much choice._

Duke taps a pen on his desk. "I know of your father. He had a good reputation, and was an honest, honorable man. But real estate…well, it's cutthroat during good times. You did better than your best after his unfortunate death. But Mr. Carson," he folds his large hands together, "Working in securities and annuities is a different game. It's mostly to do with numbers, and what you're willing to risk. I'm more of a risk-taker – in business, and perhaps in my private life too. I'm not asking you to be like that. I need a manager, someone I and our clients can trust, that their money will be well looked after. I think you're the man for the job."

Looking after other people's money is not how Charles imagined his life. But he knows now, more than most people, about how it feels to have very little.

It is a relief to once again be working in an office. To establish a routine, and to say goodbye to the warehouse.

As grateful as he is to the Crawleys and their connections for their generosity, he does wish he had somewhere to live to call his own.

 _In my thirties, and living off them!_

He does insist on paying a nominal rent. Violet refuses, but Charles manages to get Arthur to accept some payment.

"How did you get Mrs. Crawley to go along with this?" Charles asks him in April. "She has to know about it."

"She decided it was acceptable to keep it – as long as the money goes towards our first grandchild's trust account. I hope _you_ can accept that," Arthur says, smiling tentatively.

Charles's first instinct is to protest. But he knows that it is unlikely Violet will ever give in.

 _At least I can pay back the Crawley family in some way, for all they've done for me._

Rosamund's prediction has come true sooner than they all expected. Robert and Cora's first child is due in December, just before Christmas. To everyone's surprise, Violet is delighted. Charles suspects she has not fully embraced Cora yet, but she is willing to overlook her dislike for her daughter-in-law for her unborn grandchild's sake.

Cora is a beautiful young woman, tall, with light blue eyes. Like Robert, she welcomes Charles as part of the family.

"My mother-in-law has nothing but praise for you, Carson. And your parents," she confides to him during another Sunday lunch. She lowers her voice. "I didn't think she had that much praise for _anyone_ – even counting her own relatives!"

"She's very kind," Charles defends Violet. "And she means well. In time you'll see it."

"I hope so," she sighs. "I think she's still upset that Robert decided to finish the ROTC course…I'm sure she wanted him to stay close to home. Especially now with the baby coming."

"He won't finish for another year. So she'll get time with her grandchild during the first few months. And you'll have support," Charles reminds her. He glances across the table at Robert, who's laughing with his father. "If you ask me, I think the army will be good for him."

"I agree," Cora says. "He's not sure yet what he wants to do, so military life will give him a chance to make up his mind. It's not like we're at war anymore. And we can do a bit of traveling, too, even with the baby."

It is clear to Charles that Cora relishes the thought of just being off on their own – her, Robert, and their child.

 _They want a life on their own. A chance to spread their wings._

 _I did, too._

 _Once._

 _It brought me nothing but regret._

* * *

 _ **May 1979 – December 1979**_

Sadie gives Charles a long hug. The older woman is quiet for a long time, and he knows she's trying not to cry.

 _Her hair was grey when Dad died. Now it's almost all white._

"I'm sorry," he mumbles again into her hair, keeping her close. "I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise…I should have told you how bad things were. Please accept my condolences for your mother."

"Thank you," she leans back and gives him a watery smile. "She went very fast at the end. It was probably for the best."

They sit and chat in Sadie's kitchen for an entire evening.

"You should not be ashamed about the business. Or selling your parents' house. Those things are just that – things. Yes, even your mum's paintings," she sips her coffee. "Your parents would be happier knowing you've not shunned your friends."

"Or forgotten my new ones," Charles nods softly. "It was kind of Harry to come with me to the shelter, and spend time there."

"He was glad to do it. He and Gary hit it off right away – did I tell you he's coming to repaint our bathroom?"

"No," Charles says, his face lighting up. "That's wonderful!"

"Very meticulous, that man. I looked into some of the other jobs Gary's done around here. Everyone who's hired him is pleased with his work. I only hope he can stay sober. For his own sake."

"I hope so, too."

Charles makes a habit to visit Sadie at least twice a month. He sees Harry once a week, while the two of them work on fundraising for the men's shelter.

Life is suddenly very busy. He puts in long hours at the office, learning the terms and complicated regulations of the financial world.

It is absolutely paramount to him that he never finds himself staring into the black hole ever again.

Sundays are the quiet days.

Well, quiet is relative.

Robert and Rosamund at times still squabble like only siblings do. Charles mediates between them. He also helps Arthur around the house, and tries to convince Violet of Cora's worth. Robert's young wife, despite being pregnant and newly graduated from university, has thrown herself into her new job at the hospital. She is bright, determined, and can hold her own.

 _Like her mother-in-law._

 _I think Violet would like her better – if she was not so strong-willed._

One cold Sunday in October, Robert gestures for Charles to join him and Cora in the sitting room. Arthur is watching a cricket game in the den, and Violet and Rosamund are in the kitchen. For once, they are not arguing about Duke Painswick, so Charles feels it's safe to leave them alone for five minutes.

"What is it?" Charles asks Robert as he sits down on the sofa. He's a little worried about how serious both Robert _and_ Cora look. "Is something wrong?"

The young married couple exchange a glance. It makes Charles's heart twinge.

 _Not married even a full year, and they are so in tune with each other._

 _I wonder if I'll ever have that._

He forces himself to pay attention.

"Nothing's wrong," Robert says. He smiles, squeezing Cora's hand. "We just had something we wanted to ask you."

"You've been a friend of my in-laws for years," Cora begins. "And you've become part of the family – Robert says you're like the older brother he never had."

The woman is normally candid, but he's never heard her be this open. It's a bit embarrassing. "Really?"

"I didn't use those precise words, but yes," Robert rushes through his words, reddening slightly.

 _He isn't as comfortable being open with his feelings, either._

"Anyway, we've been discussing it for a while…and Cora and I wanted to know if you'd be willing to be godfather to our child," Robert finishes.

A welter of emotions sweep through Charles.

 _They aren't my family. But they've all accepted me, welcomed me into their circle._

 _They didn't have to do that._

 _Godfather…_

He clears his throat, aware of the two watching him. "I would be honored. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," Robert beams, shaking his hand. "I think Mama will be more put at ease, knowing our child will have a _responsible_ person in his or her life. Someone to emulate."

As they shake hands, and after Cora kisses Charles on the cheek, he walks behind them back into the den.

 _Of all the debts I will repay, I will never be able to repay Violet._

 _She gave me my dignity back._

It does not escape his notice that no one else in the Crawley family knows that he was once homeless. Arthur and his children believe he is living at the house because he's saving for a down payment for his own home.

Which is true.

In mid-December, he finds a different kind of home.

He knocks on the door of Robert and Cora's apartment with mounting trepidation.

 _I don't know how to do this._

 _What do I know about babies?_

"Come in, Carson," Rosamund opens the door and ushers him in. "They're just in here, in the living room."

Cora is seated next to her husband. To Charles's surprise, Robert is holding the baby.

 _He's a natural._

Robert's expression makes him smile.

 _And he's in love._

 _Well, he has TWO ladies to love now._

"Here she is, Carson," Robert stands up. "Mary Josephine Crawley. She even woke up from her nap in time to meet you!"

Before Charles can protest, he finds himself holding the infant. "Hello," he says awkwardly, trying to figure out where to place his hands. "I'm your godfather."

She blinks, opening her tiny eyelids. Her eyes are dark.

"Mary, this is Charles Carson," Cora murmurs. "You can call him Carson – everyone else does. Unless he'd prefer you call him something else?"

Charles completely misses Cora talking to her daughter.

He can see nothing except the girl in his arms.

"I think we can all call him besotted," Rosamund laughs under her breath. "He's completely smitten by her."

Leaning forward, Charles brushes his lips against the baby's head. She has masses of dark hair.

She is not his blood, but from that moment on, she has him wrapped around her little fingers.

* * *

 _ **1980-1985**_

Time has a funny way of moving.

When Charles was struggling - broke, homeless, and alone - the days dragged.

After Mary is born, the days fly by.

He spends several evenings a week after work visiting her during her first six months. It is incredible to him how fast she grows. He does not think it's possible to love another human being more – until she smiles at him the first time.

"She's never smiled at me," Robert grumbles. "Cora keeps saying, 'Oh look! She smiled!', but by the time I get across the room, it's gone."

Robert graduates from university in the spring of 1980. He, Cora, and little Mary then move from place to place for the next few years, going wherever the army sends them.

In the autumn of 1982, Charles finally buys a house. It's a fixer-upper, but with help from Gary, he makes it livable. Violet, Sadie, and Harry help him decorate his new home.

Charles finally feels like he's gotten to a place where he can settle down.

 _If only I could find the right woman._

It's not for lack of trying. At Rosamund and Duke's wedding, they set him up with one of the bridesmaids. That relationship, if one can call it that, lasts barely two months.

Sadie introduces Charles to a neighbor's daughter. That one goes a little better. He dates Sue for close to eight months before calling it off.

By the time Robert and Cora's second daughter is born, he is single again.

"I don't think I'm cut out for it," he tells Robert as Mary wriggles on his lap and Edith screams across the room in Cora's arms. "Marriage. Kids. I'll leave that to you."

In his bed alone that night, though, he wonders.

 _I wanted it, once. A family._

 _One of my own._

Wonders what would have happened if Alice had stayed with him, and not gone for Grigg.

He turns over, uncomfortable with the thoughts that always follow him whenever he thinks of the two of them. Inevitably it reminds him of the days they were at _The Hound._

He has never been able to forget the waitress Els.

She crosses his mind at the most random, and sometimes, inconvenient times.

On a date on New Years' Eve with a friend of Rosamund's, he finds himself remembering (quite clearly) the feel of her hand in his as they danced.

Trisha is fun, and he ends up taking her home, but at the end of the encounter he is happy but not satisfied.

He is never satisfied.

 _Not like I was with her._

 _Alice never made me feel like that._

He tells himself that he is exaggerating. That he's making something out of an affair that is rapidly growing colder with time.

 _Do you think Els ever thought of you after that night? Not likely!_

 _No doubt she's married with children of her own._

On a business trip with Duke in early July 1983, they stop at the gas station across from Rusty's and _The Hound._

Both are closed.

The entire area has the feeling of having been passed by, the world having moved on. The factory shuttered, grey houses that look abandoned. In the building where Ned once showed Charles Miranda and Els's apartment, there is a faded "Kennedy '80" poster in a window.

He thinks he sees Els one windy day in March 1984. A woman, hurrying across a busy intersection in the opposite direction, catches his eye.

Something in the way she moves makes his heart jump into his mouth.

He chases after her, almost getting hit by a car in the process. While catching his breath on the other side of the crosswalk, he loses sight of the woman. He hurries down one street and then another, cursing under his breath.

Whether he curses himself, or her, or fate, he's not sure.

He finally gives up near a local schoolyard. The shouts of children float on the breeze.

* * *

On Mary's first day of school, Charles is very pleased to go along. She is confident, and more than ready to leave her parents behind.

Cora laughs and wipes away a tear, while Robert stares forlornly after his eldest daughter.

Neither of the Crawleys see Mary's lower lip tremble, or the way her big eyes search for her godfather.

"I-I don't want to go, Carson," she whispers. He pretends to adjust the straps on her backpack.

"You have to," he whispers. "You'll do well. You'll make lots of friends, and learn lots of new things."

He, along with the rest of the extended Crawley clan, are relieved Robert is out of the military. It means they will stay in one place.

 _I'll be able to watch her grow up. Edith too._

"Go on," Charles prods Mary forward. "Your mum will be here at twelve. You'll have fun," he encourages her. "You can tell me all about it tomorrow night when I come for supper."

"Okay."

She flashes him her five-year-old smile and waves, making his heart melt all over again.

* * *

 _ **June, 1988**_

The rented hall is warm and loud, full of love and good humor. Charles jostles his way to the bar.

"A Guinness, please," he asks the young man there. Skip passes a glass of the dark beer back to him and he sips it gratefully.

 _I needed that._

 _There's too many people in here._

 _Violet_ _would_ _insist on holding an anniversary celebration, not just for her and Arthur's thirty-fifth, but for Robert and Cora's tenth…never mind theirs isn't until December. Technically._

The matriarch of the Crawleys, he knows, has wanted to throw a proper celebration for her son and daughter-in-law for ages. She has never gotten over them marrying at the courthouse, he thinks.

The occasion of a milestone anniversary, and the coincidence of it falling this year, has given them a reason for a double celebration.

Charles is, as he has been for close to a decade, part of the planning and celebrations. He's been looking forward to this night for weeks.

And yet, now that it's here, he feels rather empty.

 _It's just that all the excitement comes and goes so quickly._

But it's more than that, and he knows it.

 _I'll be forty soon._

He feels old, and rather lonely.

Avoiding two laughing colleagues of Cora's, he accidently bumps a man's elbow.

"I'm so sorry-"

His words fail when the man turns.

"Good evening, Mr. Carson. It's nice to see you again."

"And you, Doctor," he manages, shaking Dr. Clarkson's hand. He has not seen the doctor in several years. "How are you?"

"Oh, pretty much the same," the man answers. "Busy."

"Carson, how do you know Dr. Clarkson?" Robert asks, appearing at his side, coming from the bar. "I wasn't aware you knew each other."

Charles feels panic blooming in his chest. He assumes the doctor is there at Cora's invitation, since she works in HR at the hospital.

"We met several years ago, in the emergency room," Dr. Clarkson says, his eyes flitting from Charles to Robert and back again. "Broken ribs are a nasty business. But that's a hazard of playing cricket."

Charles lets out a relieved breath. "It certainly is."

 _Thank you,_ he says silently to the doctor.

"That must have been painful," Robert says in sympathy. "I suppose you're not used to seeing many emergencies related to cricket, though, are you doctor?"

"Oh, I've seen a few," Dr. Clarkson drinks his beer. "Bruised shins and the occasional broken hand. That sort of thing." He raises his glass at Charles. "I am glad to see you've fully recovered, Mr. Carson. As I'm sure you are."

"I am," Charles says. They make small talk for a few more minutes before he excuses himself.

 _It seems that as far as I've gone, and as much as my life has changed, I can never quite shake the past._

After dancing with Mary and Edith (and Mary again – twice, at her insistence), then with Cora and Violet, he goes back to the bar. The music has slowed down a bit. It's a mixture of contemporary tunes, as well as some older ones.

He feels his heart thump when the Carpenters' _Close to You_ wafts across the floor.

He hasn't listened to that sort of music in years.

The beer goes down easier. On his fourth (or is it fifth?) drink, he is suddenly aware that some of the older guests, mostly Violet and Arthur's friends, have left. The atmosphere is different.

Couples sway on the floor, some rather closer to each other than is usually seen in public.

Richard Marx's voice hangs in the air like scented perfume.

Charles makes a face. "This song, _again_?" He asks the bartender. His face is red. "This isn't a very good song for an anniversary celebration. Don't you think so?"

Skip shrugs. "No. But it's getting late, and I heard one of Cora's friends is going through a divorce. She likes Richard Marx…that's probably why the DJ keeps playing it."

Charles drains his glass, and asks for another.

 _Summer came and left without a warning_

 _All at once I looked, and you were gone_

 _And now you're looking back at me_

 _Searching for a way that we can be like the way we were before_

 _Now I'm back to what I knew before you_

 _Somehow the city doesn't look the same_

 _I'd give my life for one more night_

 _Of having you here to hold me tight, oh please_

 _Take me there again…_

He blinks, and the air shimmers.

She's standing there. Just there, on the other side of the bar.

"Els," he murmurs. She doesn't answer. "Els," he repeats, a little louder. The damned song is drowning out his voice. "Els!"

Skip gently wraps his hand around the half-empty glass, pulling it away. "I think you've had enough, Mr. Carson."

"Not Mr. Carson," Charles slurs. "Charlie. You used to call me Charlie…"

His vision clears, and despite his inebriation, he sees his mistake. "Sorry…I…thought you were someone else…sorry…"

"Had a bit too much, Carson?" Duke slaps him on the back. "I've never seen you like this."

"It's not funny," Rosamund snaps, peering at Charles's face. "Let's get you to your room."

"I don't…can do it myself." Charles gets off the barstool, but the floor has turned into the ocean. Wave upon wave. Duke grabs his arm and puts it around his neck.

"Easy, Carson. We'll help you."

"He's absolutely _sloshed_ ," Rosamund says in wonder. "How much did he have?" She gives Skip a piercing glare.

"Six," he says. "But I thought a man his size could handle it."

"Well, Carson obviously can't," she arches an eyebrow.

"He might've had more before dinner. Sorry."

"Probably," Duke agrees. Rosamund takes Charles's other arm and they guide him out of the emptying hall and through the breezeway to the hotel. Richard Marx follows them.

 _And I remember how you loved me_

 _Time was all we had until the day we said goodbye_

 _I remember every moment of those endless summer nights…_

In Charles's room, they set him on the bed. Rosamund takes off his shoes, while Duke unknots his tie.

Charles is dimly aware of their presence. But he can't shake the sense that the waitress _was_ close by. Behind the bar.

If only for an instant.

"Els."

"Els?" Duke asks, draping Charles's tie over a chair and yanking off his suit coat. "Who's Els?"

"I've no idea," Rosamund gets up. "Carson? Will you be all right? It's late, and we're going to bed."

He looks up at Robert's sister with bleary eyes. "Yes, I'll be fine," he says thickly. "I'll have some coffee. That'll help."

Duke begins making some with the cheap coffeemaker next to his mirror.

"Water would be better for him," Rosamund says, putting Charles's shoes underneath the desk. She glances back at the man on the bed. "Well, probably a woman would be better, but not just _any_ woman, I think."

She opens the window, and shakes her head.

"The music is _entirely_ too loud – someone might call the police to complain!"

"Not likely," Duke says. "It's Saturday night."

They stay until Charles drinks some coffee, and sobers up a little.

He lays on his side on the bed, the streetlight flickering in his vision. He wishes Els was really there with him.

 _In my arms, the blanket thrown off…_

Even though the window is open, it's still hot in the room. Sweat beads on his forehead. He wipes it away, imagining her hand brushing along his hairline.

 _I'd move aside her hair and kiss the back of her neck. Behind her ear._

His breath increases, as he thinks about how he'd tease her. Please her.

 _Like I did once._

 _God, I still remember the way she reached for me. How she said she wanted me._

 _I wanted her._

 _I want her now._

But he is alone, and he knows it. His head pounds.

The song plays again. He's heard it so often, he mouths some of the lyrics, his throat closing up.

 _Do you remember all the nights we spent in silence…_

The nights they had never spoken, just exchanged looks across the bar.

 _Every single breath you took was mine_

 _We can have it all again_

 _Say that you'll be with me when the sun brings your heart to mine…_

 _And I remember how you loved me_

 _Time was all we had until the day we said goodbye_

 _I remember every moment of those endless summer nights…_

* * *

She can't sleep.

Even without the sheet on, even with only her panties and old sleeveless shirt, she's too hot.

The loud music doesn't help.

Sighing, she gets up.

The flickering light of the streetlight illumines some of the kitchenette as she fumbles for a clean cup.

Water wets her mouth, but it isn't what she wants.

 _I could really go for a cold beer._

 _Or three._

It would be easy, she muses. The hall is just two blocks down from her second floor apartment. And by the sound of laughter and music coming from the old building, there's a celebration going on. A wedding, most likely.

The staff know her there. Skip, the friendly bartender. Sometimes on quiet Friday nights, if she can get a neighbor to sit in her apartment for half an hour, she's gone down there and had a drink.

 _I could find myself a man, too. Especially tonight._

 _Careful, Elsie._

 _Don't go down that road._

 _You did once._

She leans with her back against the lip of the counter, swallowing lukewarm water. If she's honest with herself – and at times like this, when it's past eleven and it's relatively quiet – a part of her yearns to go that way again.

To a time when she didn't fear consequences.

When she had no regrets.

When all there was was time, and the feel of a man's body against hers.

Inside her.

 _There was more than one man, then._

 _True._

 _But you think of one more than the other._

 _Much more._

It's been how long? Ten years?

 _Eleven_ , whispers her heart. _Almost eleven years. It was August, 1977, and that night at Rusty's._

Sweat beads on her neck and runs down in between her breasts.

 _God, what I wouldn't give to have him here now._

 _I wanted him then._

 _I want him now._

"Charlie," she whispers. She squeezes her thighs together.

She imagines him standing in the little doorway out to the tiny balcony, blocking the light of the annoying streetlight. How she'd kiss him till they were both gasping for breath.

 _I remember following him into the shower. We never made it back to the bed._

 _I took him right there, on the floor._

 _I'd never done that before._

 _You haven't done that since, girl._

She is pulled from her reverie by a soft cough from the other bedroom. Out of habit, she pads noiselessly to the open door.

The oscillating fan turns back and forth. _Whrrr-whrrr-whrrrr._

Two small figures are sprawled on the twin beds jammed into the narrow room. It only takes a second for her to see they're both still fast asleep.

In the time it takes for her to go back to the sink to refill her glass and pull on a pair of ratty shorts, reality has come rushing back full throttle into her mind.

 _As much as you might want a man, you have to think of them first._

 _But I don't want to be alone forever._

 _I didn't think I would be alone at all._

It's mildly cooler on her balcony. The moon is so bright it reflects off cars parked on the street. Dark figures stumble out of the hall, laughing and talking.

It's a different world.

A couple hurries along in the direction of her building. At first she thinks they're headed towards a car, but then they turn to race across the street.

"Robert, the hotel is _that_ way!" The woman laughs, tugging on his arm.

"Oh sorry love," Elsie hears him say. She watches him pull his companion closer. They kiss, their figures melding together in the shadow of the streetlight.

The woman runs her hands along the man's shoulders and plunges her fingers into his hair.

It makes Elsie smile, and it makes her sad all at once.

She goes back into the kitchenette. A song blares from the hall. Her heart clenches.

She knows it well.

She knows the memories it stirs better.

At least, she thinks wryly, it's not a Carpenters' song.

Still, at the moment she'd rather hear a '70s throwback than Richard Marx.

Again.

 _And I remember how you loved me_

 _Time was all we had until the day we said goodbye_

 _I remember every moment of those endless summer nights…_

She wishes she didn't remember so vividly sometimes. And yet she can't seem to help herself.

She mouths along with the lyrics, tears pricking at her eyes.

 _Do you remember all the nights we spent in silence_

 _Every single breath you took was mine_

 _We can have it all again_

 _Say that you'll be with me when the sun brings your heart to mine…_

Elsie goes back into her room. Closing the door will make it warmer, but she does it anyway.

And locks it.

She strips off her shirt and shorts.

And for good measure, her panties too.

Laying on her side on top of the sheet, she imagines him lying next to her. How she'd lift his hand to kiss each finger. Her breath increases at the thought of his broad chest warm against her back. How he'd groan when she'd slowly move her bum against his groin.

 _Like I did once._

 _He said he loved me._

"Charlie," she murmurs.

She sings under her breath with Richard Marx.

 _There's only so much I can say_

 _So please don't run away_

 _From what we have together_

 _It's only you and me tonight_

 _So let's stay lost in flight_

 _Oh won't you please surrender?_

She flops onto her back, watching the pebbled light of the moon and streetlight dance on her ceiling.

 _And I remember how you loved me_

 _Time was all we had until the dance we said goodbye_

 _And I remember every moment of those endless summer nights…_

She has always remembered.

And part of her knows she always will.


	5. Elsie Hughes

**A/N: First of all, THANK YOU for your wonderful reviews! Wow…each and every one really does mean so much. You all make me feel amazing, truly. Anytime I doubt myself, your awesome reviews pick me up right away! I love reading your thoughts, your feels, your theories! Some reviews make me laugh (in a good way), some make me cry (don't worry, I don't hold it against anyone), and the guest reviewer who pleaded for a Christmas present…and then a New Year's gift…I love you. Oh, and stokersisters, your keyboard smash was epic. asdfghjkl;**

 **Okay, time to buckle up, friends, because this roller coaster of Elsie's POV is going to start. A few thousand words would never be enough to say what needed to be said here. I struggled more with** _ **how**_ **to tell this – the main story (present day, or erm, close enough) needs to get going, but you all need to know what the Elsie in Chelsie has gone through. So this chapter is both the main story and (the beginning) of a flashback.**

 **Spoiler alert: Yes, this story is M, and you get a reminder of why here. Another spoiler: you'll meet characters that Charles knows, but Elsie doesn't know** _ **he**_ **knows them. If this seems increasingly unlikely that they would both know people that the other does without either of them being aware of each other's presence (if that makes sense), please know that in this regard I am going off personal experience to a certain extent. People do cross paths, and those people cross paths with others, and at the end of the day we're all playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. I might know** _ **you**_ **in real life, you never know…:)**

 **On with the story!**

* * *

 _ **December, 2017**_

Edward shifts in his chair. "They've been gone a long time."

Nodding, Elsie glances towards the closed door. To the hallway where Thomas and Anna have gone. They have left to get food from the cafeteria. "They might have stopped to talk to Ethel on their way there…to see how Sybil is doing."

Her throat closes as she smooths the blanket on Joe's bed. He murmurs something without words in his sleep. His eyes close tighter, and she wonders if he'll wake.

He doesn't. His face relaxes a little, his sunken eyes and pale, dry skin harsh under the light.

The drugs they are giving him for the pain mean he sleeps most of the time.

 _It won't be long now._

 _For Sybil either._

"You should go look for them," Edward says quietly. He leans over and finds her hand, squeezing it. "To stretch your legs, at least. You haven't moved from that chair for hours, have you?"

Elsie smiles, feeling tears burn her eyes. She squeezes his hand back and gets up with a sigh. Her knees crack. "I think I will. Just to the end of the hall and back, even if I don't see them."

She stumbles a bit, her foot mostly asleep.

 _I've been sitting too long._

She is tired.

Not just in body, but in mind and in heart. But she senses that the end is near.

 _Just a little while yet._

It is what happens after that frightens her.

 _Everything will change._

Grabbing her phone, she checks it as she shuts the door in the hallway. The brighter light and noise, little as it is, revive her a bit. As does the text message on her silenced phone.

 _Peter Burns to Elsie Hughes, 3:38 pm_

 _We're boarding now. The flight gets in 8. Anna's picking us up. Tell Dad we're coming._

Even though she knows his phone is off, she texts him back.

 _EH to PB, 5:12 pm_

 _I told him. I'll pray you all have a safe flight, and we'll see you soon._

She knows Joe is clinging on to life in large part for his son's sake.

 _His_ _ **only**_ _son_ , her heart whispers. _His only child._

 _Stop that. Don't go there._

She does anyway. Her own mind betrays her.

 _Anna's as good as a daughter to him. He loves her, and she loves him._

 _And Thomas?_

She closes her eyes for a moment and leans against the wall, resting her face in her hand, her phone clutched in the other.

 _You've never told Thomas. Not really._

 _You lied to your own son._

 _I did not!_ She argues internally with the persistent voice. _I am not a liar, but there are things I don't say…I told him_ _ **enough**_ _. I was only trying to protect him._

 _There was nothing else to tell anyway – he thinks it's likely he was the product of a one night stand. Or that he's Joe's._

 _He doesn't think Joe is his biological father. He hasn't thought that for a LONG time._

 _Joe doesn't think so, either._

Her frail husband has not said anything directly about it for years.

 _We made a choice. Both of us. That it would be better not to know._

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie gasps, looking up. Jane Moorsum, a young doctor on the ward, is looking at her with concerned eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Joe and Thomas and Peter and Anna's faces all swirl in Elsie's mind. Becky is there too.

And Mam, looking disappointed and furious.

" _I thought you were smarter…"_

Unable to answer Jane, Elsie shakes her head. It would be too much to explain, even to herself. Let alone anyone else.

 _When Thomas was a boy, you rationalized not telling him everything because he was too young. He'll be forty next year!_

 _Don't you think he deserves the truth?_

It feels like the truth is locked behind a heavy door, and she's standing there with the keys. Unable to step forward.

 _The door to my heart._

It was opened, once. She's been afraid to open it since.

"Can I get you anything?" Jane asks. "Something to eat? I don't mind going downstairs."

"No…no thank you," Elsie mumbles to the woman. She hates thinking she's adding to her burden. "I just came out here to stretch my legs. Thomas and Anna went to get food. They should be back up soon."

She gives Jane a watery smile and trudges down the long corridor. Anything to drive the memories, and the regrets away.

The guilt never leaves her. She's used to its weight.

Turning to go down the hallway to the lifts, she stops short. Thomas and Anna are standing with Ethel. The three are huddled together.

Weeping.

Her eyes immediately drift to the left, to Sybil's room. The door is wide open, and several staff are carrying out laundry. An unfamiliar man in a suit talks in a low voice to a serious-looking woman.

Sybil's bed is empty.

Elsie's vision blurs.

 _No. No, no, no…_

Hot tears spill out of her eyes. She presses the back of her hand against her cheek, and it comes away wet. Ethel looks up, her brown eyes red-rimmed.

"Sybil is dead. It was early this afternoon…"

The other two have not yet noticed Elsie.

Anna's usually pale face is pink and blotchy, but she dabs at her eyes and nose with a tissue. Her other arm is around Thomas. His dark head is bent over almost on top of his sister's.

"Don't…don't know why I'm crying really," Elsie hears him whisper. "She wouldn't have cared if I'd died."

"That's not true." Anna murmurs.

He snuffles. "No. No it's not."

The sight of her heartbroken children is more than Elsie can bear.

 _All I have ever wanted is to protect you. Both of you. And I can't._

 _Not from this._

They both see her at the same time, and straighten up, hastily wiping their faces. Even as grief is breaking over her, she feels a wave of affection for them.

 _They try to protect me, too._

"Oh, don't mind me," her voice breaks. "The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone…and I'm weeping myself."

Wordlessly, Anna moves across the hallway and gives her a hug. Over her shoulder, Thomas's eyes meet Elsie's.

He has always been difficult to read for most people. When he was a teenager, she sometimes despaired of knowing what was in his mind.

But now she sees everything.

It is not just Sybil's loss they mourn. They both know that Joe is not be far behind, and beyond that is unknown.

 _What will happen then?_

His face crumples and his voice breaks.

"Mum."

Stumbling forward, he all but collapses into her arms. She holds him and Anna, and the three cry together.

Comforted as Elsie is by her children's presence, she does not feel like she can fully mourn.

 _I have to be strong. For them._

 _I wish there was someone to be strong for me._

* * *

Four days later, Joe's hospital room is crowded. Edward and Thomas are huddled together on the sofa beside the far wall. Anna sits at the foot of the bed. Kelsey, Peter's fiancée, is in a chair opposite Thomas and Edward.

Peter holds his father's right hand. His lips are pressed together, his eyes never leaving Joe's face. Elsie holds Joe's cold left hand in between both of hers. Without thinking, she rubs her thumbs in circles on his skin, as if to make him warm by her touch.

 _Thank God I said what I needed to say when no one else was in the room._

Early that morning the hospice nurse was gentle, but blunt. Elsie had listened, then she'd slipped back by Joe's side while the others were still in the hallway.

" _I love you," she whispers in his ear. "You've been very good to me."_

 _ **Not always.**_

 _ **Most of the time. The past is forgiven.**_

 _ **Maybe I haven't loved him like I should have. But I tried. And he knows that.**_

 _She swallows, feeling the burn in her throat. "I forgive you. For all of it." She takes a shuddering breath. "I know you've forgiven me."_

He had told her so in the last month, before he had succumbed to pain.

As she watches Joe now, she prays that he meant what he said.

 _You have to believe he told the truth. Or else you'll go mad._

The clock ticks on the wall behind Anna.

Sometime after eleven, Joe's rattling breath finally ceases.

* * *

It is dark as the Suburban makes its way down the long driveway to the farmhouse. The sky threatens snow.

There are lights on in the house.

Elsie feels numb as Thomas shuts off the car, and she gets out. She barely registers the freezing air around her.

 _It is over. He's at peace now._

The numbness begins to crack as Phyllis Baxter-no, _Molesley_ , Elsie reminds herself, opens the door from the inside.

 _Right. They were here taking care of Laura._

She feels disoriented as Phyllis gently tugs at her coat sleeve, helping her with her scarf. "There's tea, if you'd like some," the dark-haired woman says. She squeezes Elsie's shoulders gently. "I'm so sorry, Elsie."

"Thank you." She says it automatically, not recognizing her own voice. She sits down heavily at the kitchen table and sips the hot liquid. It seeps into her chest. She blinks, suddenly aware of everything around her.

Thomas, helping Edward with his coat, both of them talking to Phyllis. Peter and Kelsey not even taking their coats off, hurrying across the kitchen to the living room. Joseph Molesley is there holding their toddler daughter, Laura. Blackjack, Edward's dog, settling down into his usual spot by Edward's chair in the corner. Anna saying a quick hello to Phyllis before vanishing up the back stairs to ring John Bates again.

Elsie sips more tea. _All that's missing is Joe. He'll be in in a moment from the barn, stomping his snowy boots before he comes in, yanking his gloves off, his face red from the cold-_

 _No._

 _No, he won't._

 _He's gone, Elsie._

 _Gone._

 _He won't be coming back again._

 _Nothing will ever be the same._

She closes her eyes, her hands clenched around her cup.

It is not the first time she's felt like this.

"M-Mrs. Hughes?" A hesitant voice speaks close by. She glances up at Joseph. "Phyllis and I are very sorry for your loss," he says, folding his hands together. "If there's anything we can do, just ask."

"You've done so much already," she tells him. "I'm very grateful…we're _all_ grateful. Thank you. You didn't have to plow the driveway," she remembers. "Your own is enough to deal with."

"Oh, I didn't mind. That's what neighbors are for."

As Anna comes back down the stairs and embraces Phyllis, Elsie feels a sense of gratitude.

 _I'm glad the rest of my family won't be alone._

 _Even if I am._

* * *

According to Joe's wishes, his body is cremated. Peter takes a few ashes in a small urn. The rest of the ashes are scattered on the farm, and in a nearby lake where Joe loved to fish.

"You don't think it's odd, do you?" Peter asks her after the memorial service. The urn is tucked securely in the crook of his arm. "That I want to take part of him with me?"

"Absolutely not," she pats him on the back. "I think he would like that."

 _A part of him will always be with me._

Peter stops, staring out the front door of the funeral home. "I should've visited more, especially after Laura was born. Kelsey and I should've gotten married at the farm like Dad wanted…I should've been a better son."

Guilt is something she understands all too well.

"You were a good son. You _are_ a good son," Elsie tries to console him. "You and Kelsey have your lives to live. Joe understood that you needed to look after your own family and your own priorities first."

 _He looks so much like Joe, when he was younger._

"You two had your difficult times, but you got through them," she continues. "He was very proud of you. Of the man you've become."

He sniffs, and wipes the corner of his eye. "You made him a better man. Mum brought out the worst in him, but you brought out the best."

"Stop," she smiles a little, all the while feeling like she wants to cry. "Your father was a good man…one of the best I've known in my life."

"I hope Kelsey can say that after we've been together for three decades," Peter says.

"I think she will. The two of you are going to be just fine. You know you all are welcome here, whenever you like," she says. "Let's not lose touch."

"Thanks. If Kelsey has anything to say about it, we'll be back." He half-grins. "She was an only child."

They glance over at Kelsey, holding Laura, and Anna. The two young women are in deep in conversation.

"Don't feel like you have to stay on the farm," Peter murmurs in a low voice. "I mean, in the long term if you don't want to. I know it meant a lot to Dad, but it doesn't mean much to me. And I doubt Thomas or Anna want it, either."

"They don't." Elsie is relieved he's brought up the subject, and is being honest with her. "But are you _sure_ you don't want it?" She asks. "It's been in your family for generations."

"I'm sure," he says stoutly. "It's not home to me." He glances at Kelsey and Laura again. "They are."

* * *

The house is crowded, both with family and guests from the memorial and with those who couldn't make it. There is a lot of food. Elsie is not entirely sure where it's all come from, but the children and the Molesleys seem to have everything under control.

It's like a weird mishmash of Christmas and the aftermath of a more formal funeral – the warm lights of the tree in the corner, plates of food balanced on laps, dark suits, black dresses, greenery trailing down the bannister, and flowers everywhere. Cards piled up on the counter and in a basket on the coffee table. Shaking hands, hugs, murmured condolences. Even jokes and occasional laughter.

Joe would have liked it better than a traditional funeral, she knows.

Several of her colleagues from the catering company arrive. Former neighbors are there. Elsie is not surprised that Gwen, Anna's childhood friend, came to the memorial and is at the house, but she is pleasantly surprised when Roger and Tracy, Gwen's parents, arrive.

She is more surprised, and less delighted, when the familiar figure of Mary Crawley appears before her.

"Mrs. Hughes," the dark-haired young woman says, in that crisp way that on the best days seems to grate on Elsie's nerves, "Matthew and I are very sorry for your loss."

Mary's hand is cold as Elsie shakes it.

 _She's here for Anna's sake, not mine,_ she reminds herself. _Well, that's to her credit. I must be gracious._

When Anna had first met Mary, Joe had commented that he didn't see the friendship lasting.

" _Anna's down to earth. That girl is a snob if I've ever seen one_ , _"_ he'd said.

It was one of the things he and Elsie had agreed upon. Mary had managed to surprise them more than once.

"Thank you," she manages to say to Mary. One of Joe's cousins laughs loudly behind her, in conversation with his son. Elsie sees Mary's eyes flicker in their direction. She bites her tongue to keep from saying something sarcastic.

 _No doubt a death in YOUR family would be handled with more dignity._

As soon as she thinks it, Elsie is ashamed of herself.

 _She's just lost her sister. She deserves pity…_

 _They're not all bad. Sybil wasn't cold at all. And Anna's said that Mary is fond of Tom._

 _She's stayed friends with Anna all these years as well._

 _That's a point in her favor._

"Please accept my condolences," Elsie clears her throat, aware that the conversation in the room has made it – not loud, exactly, but not quiet, either. "We were all very sad to hear about Sybil. We'd hoped she'd pull through."

Mary blinks rapidly several times. "Thank you," she says. "And thank you for the flowers. We hoped she'd beat the cancer…but it wasn't meant to be. She got to know Mr. Burns fairly well. I understand you visited her."

"A few times," Elsie's heart aches. "I'm sorry I didn't get to know her better." Sybil was one of the reasons Joe lasted as long as he did, she thinks. She kept his spirits up through treatments and losing his hair. All the while fighting her own battle.

 _Strange that they both lost their fight only days apart._

She hopes that they both meet in heaven somewhere.

After asking Mary about Tom Branson and making awkward small talk, she's glad when Anna pulls her away.

"I didn't want to bother you," Elsie's blonde daughter says as they make their way back into the kitchen, "But John is here."

Elsie's heart skips a beat. "That's kind of him."

 _Coming to something like this? He's either_ _very_ _good at manipulating people, or he really cares about Anna._

 _Were you always this cynical?_

It's more that she's very protective over her daughter, despite Anna's age. Other boyfriends have not come close to the mark.

And what she's heard about this one have not exactly filled her with confidence.

 _Bouncing around career-wise, a previous drinking problem, a failed marriage…_

 _As if YOU'VE made good decisions your entire life!_

 _You shouldn't judge him._

The mysterious Mr. Bates is sitting at the kitchen table talking to Edward. He gets up immediately when Anna says his name, and takes Elsie's outstretched hand.

She notices the way he favors one leg over the other.

And how tall and broad-shouldered he is. How he carries himself.

It is reminiscent of another tall dark-haired man, long gone.

"Mrs. Hughes," John says solemnly. "I'm very sorry about the loss of your husband."

"I wish the circumstances of our meeting were happier," she replies, "But thank you for coming." She pauses, then makes herself say the words. "I am glad to finally meet you."

Focusing on his face during their conversation, she nevertheless can plainly see how he and Anna mirror each other. The ease that they have in each other's presence.

 _Like Thomas and Edward._

 _Like Peter and Kelsey._

 _Joe and I were never like that._

* * *

"Now remember," Phyllis says, lingering by the back door, "If you need anything – _anything_ , even if you just want someone to talk to – call me, or come to the house. I don't want you to be lonely. It's hard enough after the holidays."

"Really, I'll be _fine_ ," Elsie insists, forcing a smile. "I was here alone for months while Joe was ill."

It's not the same, and she knows it.

Peter, Kelsey, and Laura left the day after Christmas, and Anna has gone back to her apartment.

 _I must get used to my new life._

"I know, but Thomas was adamant that I check in with you," Phyllis pulls on her scarf. "You know how he can be."

She knows her son well. "Thomas is being overprotective," Elsie says curtly. "Which I love him for, of course, but the sooner everyone stops treating me like fine china, the better! I'm not going to shatter into a million pieces."

"Hardly," Phyllis opens the screen door, letting in a rush of cold air. "Well, you know where to find me." She waves, and walks down the narrow sidewalk to the gravel road, her boots crunching in the sparkling snow. She whistles to her collie, Sparta, and the dog races from the barn to follow her.

There is a beautiful blue sky overhead. Elsie is glad of the light pouring through the old windows as she sits at the table, sipping her tea.

In many ways she is glad to be alone. To have space to breathe without people in the house. To be able to do things without guests underfoot – as welcome as those guests were.

Instead of cleaning, though, after putting out the cats' food, she goes back upstairs. Lays down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. There is a faint scent in the air of old smoke that they've never been able to get rid of. Both Joe's grandfather and uncle smoked pipes, as did he in his younger years.

It reminds her of him. Something familiar.

She wakes up near noon.

 _Well, I run the catering company and can take off as much time as I need._

 _I suppose I needed sleep._

Pulling out leftover chicken that Gwen's mother had left, she stares at it. She puts it back into the fridge.

 _I need to eat, but I'm not hungry._

She has a strange feeling as she glances about the kitchen.

 _This doesn't feel like home._

In some ways it never has been.

 _This was Joe's family's house. Never mine._

Pictures of his grandparents and aunt and uncle still hang along the staircase. She had thought so many times about replacing them, but got the sense that to do so was tantamount to changing Buckingham Palace into Trump Tower.

Certain things simply are not _done._

She's lived in this house for close to thirty years. Surely that's been enough time to settle in, to put down roots.

Make it _her_ home, too.

And yet she's never quite shaken the feeling of not belonging. Of feeling this is where she has spent time, but it is not home. Like she's just passing through.

 _Silly…I knew Joe from when I was a girl. I knew his family's farm almost as well as I knew mine – why is this one different?_

 _The children grew up here_ , she thinks as she goes to the barn. Her breath puffs out into the clear air. _They had their birthday parties here, friends coming over for sleepovers. Anna learned to ride a bicycle on the driveway…_

 _It makes no sense to feel like a stranger here._

But she does. An outsider, forever in search of a place to rest.

 _Perhaps it is time to leave._

The thought fills her with unease and a little dread.

Change always makes her nervous.

 _Once you make a decision, it'll be easier. You know it will._

She chats with Alan and Bruce, cousins of Gwen's, for a while. The young men are farmers, and have taken over the vast majority of the work done on the farm. Elsie has a strong sense that the brothers want to buy the farm, but are refraining asking her until the time seems right.

 _Or until I say something to them._

She has decided to sell the farm. But she doesn't want to make any definite moves towards it right away. And she hasn't decided as to whether she'll stay at the house or not. Depending on a buyer, they might let her stay.

 _Do you WANT to stay?_

 _No._

 _But where would I go?_

The afternoon is spent in the attic. Dust floats in the air as she begins going through old boxes, things that belonged to Joe, family heirlooms that Peter might want.

The mantle clock.

She had asked Peter about it before he had left. As expected, he declined to take it. Anna might want it.

Elsie sets it aside, moves several boxes to clear a path and –

 _That box._

It sits along the back wall, a clear layer of dust decorating the top.

 _It might be full of bugs. Spiders._

She can't remember the last time she opened it.

She turns her head aside when she opens it, not because she doesn't want to see what's inside (really, she's forgotten most of it), but because of the dust in the air. It makes her eyes itch. She coughs.

Then she begins to investigate the box's contents.

On top are several drawings that Becky has done. They are yellow with age, but some of the color survives. They make her smile and her heart swell with love for her sister. She sighs.

 _I'll have to have Thomas and Anna go with me on my next visit. To explain about Joe._

 _She won't understand._

 _Maybe she will._

 _She's experienced loss before._

Steeling herself, Elsie digs deeper. There is a small photo album; she'd forgotten they had a copy made. The other is downstairs in the bedroom.

 _Our wedding album._

The children look tiny. There's a photo of them posed on the courthouse steps. Peter, clearly uncomfortable in his suit, his shoulders hunched, his sandy hair sticking up in the back. Anna, smiling in a pink dress.

 _She loved that dress._

Thomas, at that age the same height as Peter, only much skinnier. Unlike his stepbrother, he looks like he'd been born in a suit. Elsie still remembers the clerk complimenting him. And how he'd smiled and thanked her.

Turning the page, she sees herself and Joe. One picture is of them posing for the camera; the other is them looking at each other, holding hands. Elsie finds herself staring at their intertwined fingers. The photographer had been impatient – he'd told them to turn and look at each other, then snapped the picture when they were barely ready. They'd grabbed each other's hands, but hadn't had time to get a proper grip.

 _Alone._

 _I'm alone,_ _again_ _._

 _But you're not_ , a small voice whispers. _Not this time. And you weren't alone before then, either. You had, and have, your children and good friends._

In her heart, though, she feels utterly alone.

 _I've felt alone most of my life._

There are other hand-drawn pictures in the box, mostly done by Anna. One is a picture of her, Thomas, and Elsie eating ice cream cones. On the surface, it's nothing but a snapshot of a moment in time, a happy childhood memory; but Elsie clearly remembers why Anna drew it.

All thoughts of ignoring the box have fled as Elsie digs deeper, further into the past.

Her chest feels tight when she finds an old notebook. In it are handwritten notes from lectures at uni.

The words aren't important, but something pressed between the yellowed pages is.

A dried red leaf, its once bright color stained onto a page.

There is an envelope with black-and-white photos inside it. Some are of Becky as a young woman.

There is a photo of Elsie sitting on the front steps of a house. Her younger self is looking not at the photographer, but at the dark-haired infant in her arms.

 _I look so young._

 _Barely more than a girl._

Studying herself, Elsie can see a myriad of emotions on her face. Happiness. Trepidation, and a hint of fear. Awe.

She turns over the photo, and nods in confirmation.

 _June, 1978._

 _Mam took that picture of us._

 _Me and Thomas._

She runs her finger lightly over his face, as if by doing so will somehow bring back Mam on the other side of the camera.

Or Thomas's newborn scent.

When she blinks, tears drips onto the photo.

 _He has been with me since the beginning._

 _Even if he doesn't know it._

* * *

 _ **September, 1977**_

From almost the moment the bus disappears down the road from Rusty's, Elsie has a sense of something lost.

Something that cannot be easily found.

 _Stop that._

 _It was one night._

 _Yes, he was nice. The nicest man I've ever known._

 _I never would've thought such a big man would be so gentle. But he is._

 _Was._

 _He might've said he would come back, but I know better._

The beginning of her final autumn term at university brings a rush of emotions. Pride that she's gotten this far, sadness that it will soon be over. A hint of fear over what happens next.

 _Will I be ready? After graduation?_

 _I will be._

She's worked so hard to have her degree. A lump comes to her throat the first morning she has lectures, as she rides the bus to campus.

 _Granddad Mac always thought I could do it. I didn't believe in myself, when I struggled in school._

 _He always believed in me._

Elsie's grandfather, her Granddad Mackenzie, Mam's father, died when she was fourteen. Everyone called him Mac, including his daughter. Sometimes Elsie did too. He was someone she trusted. Someone she loved.

She feels him with her now.

Crossing the green lawn at noon, she hears someone call her name.

"Elsie! Elsie Hughes!"

Her heart skips, and her belly flips over. She knows that voice well.

Joe Burns appears in the crowd. She goes toward him, and before she knows it, he's racing over to her and crushing her in a hug. Then he kisses her right on the mouth.

In front of everyone.

She feels her face get warm, and she puts a hand on his chest. It's not like him to be open like this in public. Someone wolf-whistles behind them.

As nice as it is to kiss him, it feels strange. Familiar, yes. Comforting.

But as his lips are pressed against hers, his new beard scratching her face, she finds herself remembering another kiss. Several.

In a semi-dark corridor at Rusty's, in an unfamiliar hotel room.

 _I_ _felt_ _something then._

 _Why don't I feel something more now?_

"Joe…" she begins to say, though she doesn't know what exactly to say.

"God," he murmurs, pulling her chin up. "I _missed_ you."

A shard of guilt twists in her heart. "You too. It's wonderful to see you!"

She can't quite meet his eyes, but someone bumps him and he turns, distracted.

It _is_ good to see him. He's one of the few people in her life that she's known well, that she knows she can count on.

 _You know he'll always be there._

They reacquaint themselves over the course of the next week. Silently settling back into a life together. A comfortable routine.

There are lectures, work, calls to Mam every couple days. Visiting Becky at her home on Thursday.

Meeting Joe during the day, wordlessly holding hands as they walk from building to building. He does little things for her – getting her coffee in the early morning, picking her up from Rusty's so she doesn't have to take the bus home in the rain. Her heart soars.

 _He's changed._

More than ever, she begins to let herself think of a life with him. That Mam was wrong.

 _Not ALL men are terrible!_

 _Mac was a good man, too._

"You must miss the farm," she teases Joe Friday afternoon. "You've talked about little else this week."

He smiles, scratching his ear. "I love it. It's hard work, but it's what I want to do."

"So your uncle will give it to you?" She isn't surprised. His cousins have no interest in the place.

"Yes," he says. "Uncle Pete made the offer, and I said yes before he was done talking."

"I'm happy for you," she nudges his muscular arm. "It sounds like home to you."

"It _is_ home," he admits. "And the neighbors are good ones. The Dawsons, the Russells…the Campbells are the closest farm," he mutters, staring off into the distance.

"All the better for you, to have close friends nearby." Elsie envies him a little. It would be nice for once to have her future settled, to know for certain what her path will be.

Her belly flutters later that night, when Joe asks her to go with him. Back to his flat.

 _He wants a future._

 _With me._

 _You've known that for a long time, girl._

 _You would be lucky to be with him._

There is something very comforting about being with Joe. He is part of her past, what she knows.

She sets aside the thoughts that intrude on the edges of her mind, the little voice that says she doesn't _have_ to be with him.

That there are other men out there.

Or that she doesn't have to be with anyone at all.

But there is a strong yearning in her to want to be with someone, to _belong_. She never really had that growing up.

She feels a little giddy as they stumble into Joe's bedroom. He is more insistent than she remembers, pulling her flush against him as they kiss, but to her it means he wants her.

She giggles a little when he swears, fumbling with her bra. He smells like whisky and safety.

"You're beautiful," he gasps, moving over her. Inside her. Gasping, she feels the beginning of something; she moves her hips against his, hoping _maybe, this time…_

The bed creaks.

He thrusts hard, moaning. She feels him reach his pleasure, and tries to keep him with her, her legs tight around his torso. But he slips out of her with a kiss and rolls onto his back.

She says nothing, feeling a lingering sense of incompleteness, of wanting more. A frustrated sigh escapes her lips and she runs a hand through her tangled hair.

Sex has always been like this with him.

Like they are not quite in sync.

 _I thought this time would be different._

His voice breaks the silence. "I love you."

It is the first time he's ever said it to her.

Instead of feeling elated, she feels confused.

"I love you," she says automatically, staring at the ceiling.

 _Charlie said he loved me, too._

 _Maybe it's just something men say when they've gotten what they want._

 _They why didn't Joe say it before now?_

She doesn't know.

It is not until she hears him breathe deep in slumber that she goes into the bathroom to finish herself off. Her body is coiled like a tightened spring in a clock, needing release.

She tries to think of him, of the way he kisses her, the way he likes to nuzzle beneath her chin. His lanky arms around her waist.

Getting nowhere, she thinks of nothing at all. Lets her mind drift as her fingers do the work.

Her eyes are shut as she leans against the bathroom door. Her index finger brushes her nub, and she lets out a moan. The memory of a man's breath on her abdomen, on her thighs, breaks to the forefront of her mind.

 _His mouth on me…_

"Fuck," she whimpers, biting her lip. Her hand moves faster, and a low cry echoes on the cold tile.

It is not enough to reach her pleasure once.

She does it again, and once more, her fingers moving frantically in and out of her sex, all while she remembers the feel of a tall, broad man with soft eyes and curly hair. The way he teased her breasts, his soft lips making her shiver and her body come to life.

The way he would simply look at her across the bar, making her blush. The way her hand felt in his. The way he felt _beneath_ her on the floor when she took him –

She keens, her legs giving out. She kneels on the bathroom rug, gasping. For several moments she is in complete bliss, her mind in a high cloud.

 _Yes yes yesssssssss_

It is when she is coming down that guilt, and a heavy dose of shame engulf her. Even after washing her hands, she cannot wash the thoughts away.

 _I sleep with a strange man one night, and barely a week later have sex with someone else! Someone who, for all intents and purposes, is my boyfriend!_

 _What sort of woman am I?_

The greatest burden of guilt is that to reach her own pleasure, she thinks not of the man who she's known for years, but the man she doesn't know at all.

 _Charlie_ , she mouths to herself.

Joe grunts in his sleep as she climbs back into bed. She presses herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him.

 _Joe is here. Now._

 _Charlie said he would come back._

 _He SEEMED honest, but who knows if he will keep his promise?_

* * *

 _ **October, 1977**_

In the following weeks, Joe is more distant. She excuses it to begin with. He's busy, like her.

 _It's just how things go…we'll get back into a rhythm._

 _Were we ever in rhythm?_

She wonders if he falls asleep in lectures, like she's done a few times lately. That's never happened to her before – she blames it on working too much.

But when she sees Joe on the green one chilly afternoon, and starts towards him, he turns away and vanishes into a crowd. Like he's _trying_ to avoid her.

She rings him at his flat. He's out, his roommate says.

 _Maybe he is and maybe he isn't,_ she thinks. She tries again the next day. Same result.

Near the end of her shift at Rusty's that Friday, he walks into the bar. She asks if he wants something to drink. For the first time in her memory, he declines. He shuffles his feet.

He looks as though he'd rather be somewhere – anywhere – else. Her heart clenches. She swallows hard, trying to ignore the sensation of her belly rising into her throat.

"I rang you," she says, drying a glass. "Yesterday, and the day before."

She wonders if _she_ should have drink. Though of course while she's working, it's not allowed.

Joe nods. "Mike told me." He glances up at her. "Els, we need to talk."

If there is a phrase in the English language that she hates more, she has never heard it.

 _She is eight years old, skinny, all knees and elbows. Biting her lip, drawing a picture at the table._

" _I need to talk to you." Mam's face is more serious than she has ever seen it._

" _About what?" Maybe it's school, maybe it's her teacher saying she's not smart enough._

 _She wishes she were smart._

" _It's about your Da."_

" _When's he coming home?"_

" _Elsie…love, he's not coming home."_

 _She looks up at Mam from her drawing. "He-he said he'd come back," she whispers. "He told me he would. He said he'd bring me a seashell."_

 _Mam sits next to her, puts an arm around her. "He's not coming back."_

 _She clenches the crayon so hard in her fist it breaks in half. "B-but he_ _ **promised**_ _…"_

" _I know, lass." Mam's voice is soft. She does not often hug Elsie or Becky, but she does now. She kisses her temple, smooths her hair. "I know. I'm sorry. When we talked a bit ago, he said he's staying there." She sniffs. "We're getting a divorce."_

" _He PROMISED he'd come back! He loves you and me and Becks!"_

" _Elsie," Mam whispers into her hair, holding her close, "He's not coming back."_

Elsie forces herself to stay in the moment as she joins Joe at a little table in the corner. She tells herself that she's overreacting, that this is Joe Burns with her. Not the long-departed Patrick Hughes, who left his younger daughter nothing, except his name and a broken heart.

Joe sighs, sinking into a chair. "I'm…not sure how to start."

"Try." She can't look at him. Her eyes drift to a couple of old-timers at the bar, to a woman drinking alone at another table.

To the dusty floor where she once danced with Charlie.

She wishes it was that August night as Joe talks. When life seemed open, there to be enjoyed. She hears the words Joe's saying but it's like there's a wall between him and her.

Ivy Campbell, the farmer's daughter…he got to know her. They were friends. Friends who became more than friends. He felt guilty, knowing that she, Elsie, was waiting for him.

 _Was I?_ She thinks, studying her fingernails, her heart hammering.

Then Joe tells her about the phone calls he's been getting, from Ivy, her father, and his parents.

He tells her about the letter that had come ten days earlier.

With the ultimatum.

"They can't make you marry her," she whispers. "Not if you don't want to. You have some money saved-"

"I love you," he says quietly. His eyes are sunken, like he hasn't slept in days. "I do. More than anyone. I do care for Ivy, I won't deny it, but she isn't you. But I don't have a choice. I've got to do the right thing."

Suddenly it isn't what he's saying but what he _isn't_ saying. Bile rises in her throat, and she puts a hand to her mouth.

Anger and disgust roil inside her.

"She's pregnant, isn't she?"

She's amazed at how calm she sounds.

Joe sags against the back of his chair, studying his callused hands. "Yes."

 _Oh god._

"And how long-" her anger is beginning to choke her, anger with him, with the world, with herself for caring for him- "How long, _exactly_ , were you going to sleep with me before you told me you'd gotten another woman pregnant? Never?"

"It-I didn't mean to-it's not like that-"

"Like hell it's not," she snarls. She can't look at him, can't _believe_ this is what her life's come to. She leaps up from her chair and turns, feeling like she's going to throw up. Miranda catches her eye from behind the bar, but Elsie only shakes her head.

"You used me," she hisses through her teeth. "I was the safe bet, the one you'd come crawling back to if Ivy didn't want you."

"Dammit, it's not _like_ that – I didn't mean for this to happen! Don't walk away from me!" He gets up and grabs at her elbow. She shakes him off.

"Don't touch me! And I'll walk away if I damn well please!"

 _I should have done, a long time ago._

"I didn't mean for it to happen, Els," he protests. "Look we were just friends, we _were_ , she was just a lonely kid who lived down the road-"

"'Kid'?" She turns, her temper flaring. " _'Kid'?_ How old is she?"

"Eighteen," he scuffs his shoe on the floor. "She finished school last spring. She was bored last summer, she was working for her da, it was just a summer fling _._ What am I _supposed_ to say?"

 _He said he loved me, but he didn't mean it at all. Banging some local girl because he was_ _BORED_ _?_

She feels warm, flushed, hot. Like a dragon about to breathe fire. "I don't know...maybe say 'I'm sorry'? Maybe 'it was wrong of me to fuck the neighbor's daughter' when you already had a girlfriend?"

Joe flinches at her coarse language.

Elsie's own conscious nags at her. **_I_** _slept with someone else._

 _Hypocrite._

 _It doesn't matter that you only did it once._

Still, she finds it impossible in the moment to forgive Joe.

"I'm sorry," he says, pressing his hands together like in prayer. "I am so, _so,_ sorry. I can't begin to say how sorry I am…I've been awful to you. But I didn't know Ivy was pregnant when I came back to uni, and I missed you so much-"

It all rings hollow to her. It's like her heart is being encased in metal.

"If you missed me, if you really _loved_ me, you would've been honest from the moment you came back. But you weren't. Is there anything else?" She asks, her arms crossed.

There are tears in his eyes; he is genuinely upset. Part of her is moved, and wants to forgive him or at least hear him out, but the stronger side of her is finished with the pretense.

 _Men leave._

 _They ALL leave._

 _Da, Charlie, Joe…even Mac. He died when we still needed him._

 _The only person I can rely on is myself._

"No." Joe's shoulders are slumped, and he wipes his eyes. "I just…wanted to tell you myself, not to let you find out some other way. I'm leaving uni next week. Going up north to Uncle Pete's farm."

 _So I won't see you._

"Well." There seems to be nothing else to say. "Goodbye, then."

He takes a step towards her, but she turns her head.

The sight of him makes her feel ill.

 _What a fool I was. I am._

She studies the wood on the bar. It needs varnishing, but Rusty is too cheap to do it.

"Goodbye," Joe says finally. "I…hope you graduate, and you have a good life. You deserve it."

If he's expecting a thank you, he won't get it from her.

He stand awkwardly next to their table before walking out. She lets out a breath at the sound of the door closing.

 _It's over. For good._

 _I don't feel trapped anymore._

What she does feel is betrayed.

Miranda finds her in the loo.

"Are you ill?"

She wishes she was. That she could just vomit, and feel better.

But nothing comes out of her mouth.

 _No amount of vomiting will make this better. Or alcohol, or chocolate, or words from Mam._

It is not until later when she and Miranda are back at their apartment that the cracks around her heart break open.

Her chest heaves, and she sobs. Her face is a blotchy, red mess.

 _Stupid, stupid, STUPID!_

 _I believed him. I thought we'd be together. I thought he'd propose…_

 _Idiot girl._

 _And you're stupid if you still think Charlie's coming back._

 _How long has it been since he left? A month?_

 _He's not coming back._

Thinking about Charlie is like being stabbed in the heart.

 _I trusted him, too. That he meant what he said._

 _Fool!_

Miranda pulls Elsie's hair back, holds her as she cries. Fetches her more tissues when she runs out.

"Men are shit," Miranda mutters. "No, that's an insult to shit. They're amoebas who _wish_ they were shit."

Elsie knows her friend is only trying to cheer her up. She tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace.

"Something to drink?" Miranda rushes into the kitchen and rummages for a minute. She emerges with a nearly full bottle. "Whisky?"

Elsie's belly heaves, and tears flood her eyes again. "No," she croaks. "Joe likes it, and I don't want _anything_ to do with him."

Miranda makes her tea instead. But listening to her friend, she doesn't pour any whisky into it.

She puts Elsie to bed. "Try to sleep. I can talk to your mum tomorrow, if you don't feel like telling her."

Elsie lays in bed, her heart aching, and her head pounding.

 _A life without Joe._

 _Isn't that what you wanted? Even a little? Otherwise you never would have slept with Charlie._

Whatever comes next in her life is a complete mystery. She knows she should see it as an opportunity, but the prospect fills her with dread.

 _I thought I would be safe. Have a place. Finally belong to someone._

 _I'll always be alone._

* * *

Mam is utterly furious when Elsie tells her what happened with Joe. But it is her pity that hurts most.

"The only thing I wanted for you," she says, "Is for you not to be hurt like I was. I wanted something – some _one_ – better for you." She sighs, and continues brushing Elsie's hair. "You are strong. You'll graduate in the spring with your whole life in front of you. No strings attached."

 _But I wanted the string,_ Elsie does not say. It makes her feel weak to admit to herself that she wanted to share her life with someone. That she doesn't want to just go it alone, like so many women are doing.

Like Mam has done for so many years.

It isn't that Elsie doesn't think she can – she doesn't _want_ to.

She has no choice.

September bleeds into October. Joe leaves uni, and Elsie tries to move on. The weather turns against her. It's cold, and rainy, and she doesn't see the sun for what feels like years.

Miranda catches a cold, and there's a nasty stomach virus going around. One Wednesday in mid-October Elsie wakes up, certain that she has a fever.

"Go to the clinic on campus," rasps Miranda. "They might be able to give you something."

Elsie sits in the room, watching the nurse take her blood pressure. She blinks when the woman says her name.

"Sorry?"

 _I wish I was home. In bed. Asleep._

"When was the beginning of your last menstrual cycle?" The nurse asks, sounding equally annoyed and bored.

It's an easy enough question. If she could remember. Sometimes her cycle is irregular.

"Um." She bites her lip. "Uh. The middle of August?"

 _Didn't I have it last month?_

She's not sure.

She consents to a test, though she's certain she's not pregnant. How many times did she and Joe have sex over the last couple of years? They weren't always careful. And nothing ever came of it.

The following afternoon she gets home from a lecture, her legs feeling like they've got rocks inside them. She hates the stairs even when she's feeling well.

Miranda isn't home, and the phone is ringing. Her bag slides off her shoulder and onto the floor. She trips over it, catching the side of the kitchen table. When she grabs for the receiver, she misses and it tumbles out of her hand, banging against the wall.

"Hello?" She asks breathlessly once it's in her hand.

" _Hello, this is Elaine from the clinic. May I speak with Elsie Hughes?"_

"Speaking."

" _Your test came back positive."_

What little air she has in her lungs leaves completely.

 _What._

 _What-_

 _No._

 _No._

 _No. This_ _ **cannot**_ _be real._

 _Cannot be-_

" _Hello?"_

"I'm here," she says, though she feels like she isn't. That her head's been cut from the rest of her, and it's floating, bouncing against the ceiling.

" _Did you hear me? Your test came back positive. You don't have the flu. You're pregnant."_

"I'm…pregnant," she repeats. She forces herself to breathe.

" _Yes. You need to make an appointment with your doctor."_

Elsie says something in response, what, she doesn't know. Whatever it is, is enough to satisfy the nurse.

The telephone dangles from her hand. It's beeping, wanting to be hung up, but she doesn't hear it.

She doesn't hear anything, or see anything in front of her.

Pregnant. She's _pregnant._

 _How in the bloody hell did this happen?_

The question hits her with the force of a slap.

 _Joe got Ivy pregnant, then he did the same thing to ME._

 _Good lord, this is messed up._

 _What will Mam say!?_

The thought of her mother makes her belly heave. She stumbles to the bathroom. Her face is pale in the mirror, grey shadows visible under her eyes. She turns on the tap.

Nausea overwhelms her but nothing comes out.

She wonders if she should ring Joe. To tell him – but what can he do?

 _He's done enough. He's marrying Ivy…he can hardly marry me, too._

Then she remembers something else.

Someone else.

Charlie.

 _Oh FUCK._

 _What if I got pregnant in August?_

 _Joe might not even BE the father._

"Fuck," she grabs at her hair, her stomach roiling. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ …"

There's no way of knowing for sure. Until she finds out how far along she is.

And depending on the timing, she might not ever know.

* * *

It's the worst possible news. Her doctor estimates she's around five weeks along, though it's still early.

 _So it could have been Charlie. Or Joe._

She doesn't know who she's angrier with, but she's certain she's mostly angry with herself.

Mam is silent when Elsie tells her.

The older woman sits perfectly still for a moment, then fumbles for a cigarette. Lighting the end of it, she puffs out a a cloud of smoke, staring somewhere out the window.

Elsie twists her hands together in her lap so hard, her knuckles turn white. "I…I'm sorry."

 _It sounded pitiful when Joe said it, and it sounds pitiful now._

Mam clears her throat, coughs, taps the cigarette on the ashtray. "I thought you were smarter than this," she whispers. A vein pops in her forehead. "I thought you were better than this. You _knew_ better – I warned you about this ages ago!"

"It just happened." Everything she says makes it sound worse.

"As if it wasn't bad enough you were careless with Joe," Mam's voice rises, "You tell me that you slept with some arse from Rusty's? What were you playing at, Russian roulette? Elsie May, what in God's name were you _thinking?_ "

 _I wasn't. I wanted to believe that Joe and I would be together._

 _And before that, I flirted with a handsome stranger. Talked, and danced with him._

 _I wanted him. No regrets…_

She feels plenty of regrets now.

 _He wanted me, too. Sex with him was the best I've ever had._

 _That doesn't matter._

 _He said he loved me._

 _That doesn't matter, either._

 _Even if he meant it._

"You can't go through with it," Mam stubs out her cigarette. "The pregnancy. It's absolutely out of the question. I won't have you throw away your life, not now. Not when you're almost finished at uni, not when you've got your whole life in front of you. My God," she moans, covering her face. "You've got Becky to think of! Her care! I can't pay for it alone!"

Her sister is the one person who's crossed Elsie's mind more than any other in the last few days. She feels a sense of finality.

 _That's what I thought, too._

 _I have to be responsible._

 _Mam can't pay for Becky by herself._

 _I can't take care of a baby, or miss work because of a pregnancy._

 _I'd get sacked, anyway._

 _I'm not sure who the father is either – and I wouldn't get any help even if I WAS sure._

"I know." She brushes tears from her eyes. It feels like she's swallowed a football. "I rang…asked how much it would cost to have an abortion," she says thickly. "I can afford it."

 _Barely._

"Make an appointment, and go," Mam pinches her nose. "It's a hard thing, but once it's done, it's done." She looks up and reaches across the table, taking Elsie's hand. "I know."

Something in the way she says it makes Elsie look her in the face. "You know?"

"Before your Da left the last time, I found out I was pregnant," Mam says. She takes a shuddering breath. "He…told me if I had the baby, our marriage was over. So I went and…that was that. It was different in those days," she squeezes Elsie's hand. "I couldn't tell anyone. Not my mother, not a friend. I had to go alone. I got through it by thinking about you and Becky. My girls," she says softly. "Money was hard to come by. And I thought, if I did it, he'd stay."

"But he didn't. He didn't stay." The pain of it still lingers, and Elsie feels a white-hot surge of anger against her father. _It was illegal then. After making her go through that, he STILL left!_

"No. At least you don't have to deal with that." Mam squeezes her hands once more. "I'm here for you. If you want me to go with you, I will."

Elsie decides she'll go alone. More than once she thinks about telling Miranda, but she'd rather keep it to herself.

It will all be over soon enough.

And she can go on as if nothing has happened.

During her next visit with Becky, she finds herself watching her older sister with fresh eyes. Becky's childish happiness, her glee at winning Chutes and Ladders again. Her tugging on Elsie's hand when they go for a walk, to show her a pinecone.

 _She is a child. She'll always be a child._

 _There's no room in my life now for anyone else._

Despite her certainty that it is the right decision, she is not comfortable with it.

The morning of Elsie's appointment, she doesn't hear a word during the lectures. She trudges to the bus stop. The bus she needs comes along within minutes, and she climbs on, staring unseeing out the window.

The air is clear, and the sun is out for the first time in days. It would be a perfect autumn day except for the wind. Another rainstorm had blown through the night before, and most of the trees have been stripped of their leaves.

At a traffic stop, there is a tree on one corner. It's bare, except for a single red leaf clinging to a high branch, buffeted by the strong breeze outside. The leaf blows one way, then another. Bending beneath the wind.

 _It's going to be ripped from the tree._

She can't take her eyes from it.

" _You can begin your life with no strings attached,"_ Mam had said to her not long before.

The red light goes on and on.

When the bus finally moves again, she turns, watching the stubborn leaf.

Her hand moves without her thinking about it. She pulls the cord, and the bus screeches to a stop, nearly throwing her into the seat in front of her.

 _There are many different kinds of strings._

 _And cords._

Her legs are shaky as she walks along the sidewalk. Another gust of wind blows the leaf, and as she hurries towards it, it comes loose.

It lands only a few feet away from her. Bending over, she picks it up. Wonders at its vibrant color, its fragile lines. It's still wet from the rain.

"You're stubborn," she says to it. "Persistent."

 _Like me._

She opens one of her notebooks and presses the leaf between two sheets of paper.

The way back to campus is long.

With every step, she argues with herself.

 _You could give the baby up for adoption._

 _That would probably be best._

 _I can't._

 _No._

 _I_ _won't_ _._

She doesn't know how she's going to finish her course at university while pregnant; she doesn't know what Mam will say; she doesn't know how she'll help pay for Becky's care and a child at the same time.

She wonders if she's sane.

"Probably not," she mumbles to herself.

 _God, I don't know how to be a mother._

In her heart, though, she knows she's keeping her child.

She names it Leaf.

* * *

 _ **October 1977-April 1978**_

The first thing Elsie does is move out. When Miranda asks her why, she says she needs to help care for Becky. It's not a lie.

Not really.

She feels a little guilty not telling her friend everything. But she's got much bigger things to worry about.

After her conversation with Mam, her problems multiply.

Her mother is apoplectic. When she sees that Elsie's mind is set, she turns away.

"You're on your own," she snaps. "I won't lift a finger to help you…I've got Becky to think about, since you've decided to set your own sister's needs aside-"

Stung, Elsie shakes her head. "It's not _like_ that-"

 _I didn't want to make a choice. Between my sister and my child._

 _So I choose both._

"You've made your bed, my girl, and now you'll lie in it," Mam snorts, her eyes blazing. "You have NO idea how hard it's going to be."

 _Maybe I don't, but I've worked hard my whole life._

They live in the same flat, but barely communicate.

Dropping out of uni seems like the most reasonable decision, though it's the last thing Elsie wants to do. Fortunately, she finds another option. There is another, smaller campus near the flat she and Mam share. It's much more convenient than the main one – and has the added advantage of having hardly anyone Elsie knows there.

Leaving Rusty's is no loss. The place holds nothing but broken promises and regrets.

She is under no illusions that people will judge her, if they knew. Even friends.

It's easier to cut ties, and start over.

Once, Elsie thought the most difficult parts of pregnancy were fatigue and nausea. Sometime in November she starts throwing up almost every day. Nothing smells good, and hardly anything except peppermint sticks taste good.

 _At least Christmas is coming._

She feels like she lives on peppermint and crackers. And tea. She never liked curry before, but chicken curry becomes one of her absolute favorite things. When she can get it.

The holidays pass in a blur. Before she knows it, it is January.

A new year.

The reality of new life grows more apparent every day. It feels like one day she looks like she's not pregnant at all, only to wake the next day and there it is: a bump.

 _Hello, Leaf._

At least it's winter. Layers, bulky sweaters, and her coat do a good job of hiding the truth from everyone.

Except her.

She's in the file room of law firm where she's got a part-time job. Reaching for a file on a higher shelf, she feels the flutter again. It makes her gasp.

The file slips out of her hands and onto the floor, spilling half its contents, but she doesn't care.

Tentatively, she slides her hands over her bump.

Leaf kicks her again.

Tears spring to her eyes, and she weeps for several minutes, her hand over her mouth so no one will hear her.

 _You're real._

It isn't like she did _not_ think her pregnancy was real – she's never been delusional. There is something wondrous about feeling something inside her.

Not something, some _one_.

Someone that she has absolutely no control over. Someone with their own will, someone who depends entirely on her.

Someone who…belongs to her.

 _I've never felt like I've belonged. I always felt the odd one out – Mam spent so much time and energy with Becky, she hardly had time for me._

It has not made Elsie jealous; she simply accepts it as a part of life.

"It's you and me now," she whispers to Leaf, tapping her fingers against her bump. "I'll do the best I can."

She can't talk to her child out loud, of course, but she starts having all sorts of mental one-sided conversations. Things she stores up during the day and tells Leaf at night.

 _Becky loves to play Chutes and Ladders. It's all she ever wants to play – well, except for checkers. Sometimes. She'll be glad to have someone else to play with, in a few years. You'll love her._

 _It's getting harder to squeeze into those horrid desks in the lecture hall. I've got to do contortions! If you become a gymnast, I won't be surprised._

 _A professor was staring at me yesterday. It made me feel…dirty. It's hard when people stare at me, or ask why I'm there. As if once a woman's pregnant she's good for nothing except to stay at home! Some of us don't have a choice. I'm getting my degree for me, but for you as well. We're doing this together._

 _I missed the bus tonight. Another girl and I are responsible for posting the mail at the law firm. We were finished, and on our way out, when one of the partners stopped us. He had a letter – not even a letter, a_ _card_ _– to send! Something personal! He had us wait while he signed it and addressed it…he thanked us for waiting, but we were angry because he'd made us late. It's not like either of us have a car and we can just leave work and go home, easy as that. Anyway, it wasn't until we were leaving that we noticed the address was to a funeral home. Apparently an old friend of the partner's, a real estate agent, died suddenly. Well, that threw cold water on me. My wee bairn, there will be hard days for you. And sometimes you might be tempted to lash out, to be angry at the world. Sometimes people will hurt you on purpose. And sometimes the people you see are having just as bad a day as you are – or even worse. I know, I need to take my own advice, but maybe if_ _I_ _teach_ _you_ _, I'll learn these lessons too._

 _You're STILL hungry? Very well, I'll eat another biscuit. Are you trying to make me fat? No, you wouldn't do that to your poor mam. On purpose._

 _Yes, I like biscuits too._

 _Not as much as you._

* * *

 _ **June, 1978**_

The cold war between mother and daughter thaws a little in May. Whether it's Elsie's growing belly, or her dogged persistence in continuing her education, Mam finally accepts that soon there's going to be a baby added to the family.

She comes into the flat after work late one evening to find her daughter putting together a crib. She stands in the doorway for a moment, then sits down on the floor, picking up the screwdriver and helping put it together.

"I'd like it if you could be there," Elsie tells her a week later. "At the birth."

She tries not to think about it – she's heard enough horror stories from other women. But she knows that she'll need someone there that knows her.

Mam cracks a smile, the lines around her mouth deepening. "Really? I didn't think you'd want me."

"Of course I do!" Elsie takes Mam's hand. "We've had our disagreements, but you'll always be my mother."

Mam nods. "I should'a known a daughter of mine would outlast me in stubbornness. I'm glad you did," she says softly, squeezing Elsie's hand. "I want you to know I'll be there for you at the birth – and for _both_ of you every day after."

Elsie starts to cry. It means more than she can ever say that Mam supports her and her baby.

That she won't be alone.

She thinks about not walking at her graduation. It's the hottest week of the year, and Mam can't get off work.

And how many graduates are a week past their due date?

People stare at her enough.

 _You should anyway._

 _You've worked so hard!_

It feels like everyone is watching her when they call her name. Watching a young woman sweating under her robe, who waddles more than she walks across the stage.

To her surprise, there is applause from more than one direction. Some of the faces that she sees are familiar, others aren't. There is a mixture of surprise, incredulity – and respect.

Several graduates she knew from the main campus insist on her joining them for a celebratory lunch. While she can't toast with anything other than water, it feels extremely good to feel part of a group. To be a part of something they've all accomplished.

At home that afternoon, her feet up and the windows open in a vain attempt to cool herself, she rubs her round belly.

"Well, we did it," Elsie says to Leaf. "You can arrive anytime you like now – Mr. Martin says I don't have to start my new job until August."

She feels immense relief that not only has she managed to get hired at the catering company, Lucille's, but that the owners are caring people, and understand that she's going to need time after giving birth to settle into a new routine.

In the meantime, she's gotten another job at a local diner, waitressing in the evenings and on some weekends. That is to help Mam pay for Becky's care.

Her mother has worked two (or more) jobs for as long as Elsie can remember. She doesn't like the idea of spending so much time away from her child, but it's all she knows.

 _We'll make it work._

* * *

As Mam says, babies come in their own time. No matter the convenience, or lack thereof.

So when Elsie's waters break at three in the morning on a Sunday, the week after her graduation (her due date now is two weeks past), at first there is a bit of a panic, and much excitement. Mam, half-asleep, only realizes she's only got one sock on after they get to the hospital.

"Never mind that," Elsie sighs as a nurse comes into the room they've given her. "The bairn won't hold it against you."

"Hopefully she won't," Mam rubs her back.

"Oh, are you having a girl?" The nurse, Christine, asks. Elsie marvels at the woman's ability to be wide awake before four o'clock.

 _I'm_ _wide awake now, but I'm in labor!_

"My mother thinks I am," she replies. She means to say more, but another contraction hits her. "Ohhhhh…"

Mam grips her hand through the wave of pain. "That was a hard one?" she murmurs.

Elsie nods, leaning against her. "The one before wasn't so bad."

"Well, they're going to get worse before they get better," chirps Christine. Her smile fades when mother and daughter glare at her. "I'll…get the doctor. To come examine you."

"I hope she doesn't stay the whole time you're here," Mam mutters darkly, glancing at the door. "'…get worse before they get better' – who _says_ that to a woman in labor? No one needs to tell you how it's going to go!"

"Dr. Lambeth will set her right," Elsie says as Mam reaches for the cup of water and hands it to her. "He's very practical, that man."

The nurse doesn't come back. A quarter of an hour passes, then another. Mam paces back and forth.

"I keep looking in the hallway, but I don't see her," she fumes. "What sort of place is this? Are they going to let us fend for ourselves?"

Not two minutes later, another nurse hurries in. "I'm terribly sorry," she says. "Christine was needed down in Emergency, and there was a shift change. I'm Angela," she shakes Elsie's hand, then Mam's. "I'll be here for as long as it takes."

"Is Dr. Lambeth coming soon?" Elsie asks. Her labor hasn't progressed very far (she doesn't think), but she'll feel better once the doctor comes in.

"He can't," Angela replies. "He had an emergency cesarean not an hour ago, and that was after he'd been on call since six o'clock in the evening on Friday."

Elsie's heart plunges. "So he won't _be_ here!?"

Dr. Lambeth is not the best doctor she's ever had, but he is familiar to her.

 _Oh NO._

"I'm sorry," Angela edges towards the door. "He had to go home and get some rest. I'm going to get the doctor on call now and I'll be right back."

"Oh god," Elsie moans the second the nurse disappears. "Some man I don't know, who won't know me, who won't _listen_ to me-"

"I'll make sure you're looked after," Mam says. "I'll make sure he'll listen to _me_."

Someone knocks on the door. A dark-haired woman steps through the door wearing a white coat. "Good morning," she says. She is pleasant, but not overbearing. "Elsie Hughes?"

"Yes," Elsie says, feeling very confused. She takes the woman's outstretched hand. "And you are?"

"Dr. Isobel Crawley," the woman smiles as she shakes Mam's hand. "This must be your mother."

"I'm Sarah Mackenzie," Mam says, looking at Dr. Crawley with raised eyebrows.

"I've very pleased to meet you both. You look like you need something with caffeine," Dr. Crawley says to Mam. "The cafeteria is open at all hours, so you should be able to get something there."

"Why don't you go now?" Elsie glances up at her mother. "You had so little sleep…there's no sense in you starving yourself, either."

Mam hesitates, but leaves when Elsie gives her a reassuring smile.

Dr. Crawley watches her go. "She's very protective of you."

"She's tried to be. She hasn't always succeeded." Elsie studies the young doctor. The woman can't be much more than thirty, she thinks. Despite her youth, Elsie has the innate sense that the doctor is more than competent.

That she is safe in her hands.

"You look like you doubt me," Dr. Crawley says, not looking away from Elsie's piercing stare. Her brown eyes are calm. "I don't blame you. It's your life, and your child's life, that you're putting in my hands. No one takes that lightly. I want you to know," she checks Elsie's chart, then looks up again, "That I will do everything in my power to make sure you have a safe delivery. But I must ask that you trust me – and I'd rather make sure that we understand each other now, before you're concentrating on more important things."

 _Thank God. A doctor who treats her patient with respect!_

Letting out a breath, Elsie folds her hands over Leaf. "I trust you, Dr. Crawley. Thank you." She rubs her belly; it's become such a habit she doesn't think about it. "How many babies have you delivered?"

"Including earlier this morning, seven hundred and seventy-six."

"Oh. That-that's quite a number, " Elsie stutters. She's becoming more impressed by the moment. But she has to ask another question. "And how many mothers have you lost?"

Dr. Crawley's eyes are serious. "Not one. Every one of them, I assure you, has shouted at me at least once during labor. I don't take it personally, no matter how colorful the language. Anyway, they're usually shouting at their husbands, not at me."

 _I don't have a husband. Or a boyfriend._

She feels tears coming. It's a mixture of shame, of regret, of what-might-have-been.

The doctor's face is gentle. "Elsie, you are not the first woman in labor I've seen who isn't wearing a wedding ring, and you won't be the last. I don't pass judgment. I'm a doctor, not a magistrate." She hands a tissue over. "I didn't see our social worker here. May I ask if you're keeping your baby? If you don't mind?"

"I don't mind. I am keeping the baby," Elsie dabs her face. "I thought about giving it up for adoption, but I just couldn't."

 _I was going to get an abortion, but I couldn't do that either._

 _A leaf changed my mind._

"Your child is very lucky to have you," Dr. Crawley squeezes her shoulder. "You're a strong woman." She moves to the end of the bed to check Elsie's progress, pulling on a pair of gloves. "I only hope I can be such a role model to my own children someday."

"Do you have children?"

The woman shakes her head. "Not yet. Reggie and I would love children, but it hasn't happened for us yet. Reggie's my husband," she explains. "He's a doctor, too."

"I hope you have a child," Elsie counts her breathing as she feels another contraction begin.

"I hope so too," Dr. Crawley smiles. "At the moment, my attention's on yours. Four centimeters…you're progressing nicely."

* * *

Looking back on that day, Elsie often thinks that it was a good quirk of fate that Dr. Lambeth couldn't be there. After a few hours, it feels like Dr. Crawley is an old friend. Even Mam warms up to her.

As the morning turns into the afternoon, though, Elsie worries that her labor has slowed.

"I don't want a cesarean," she says.

"That decision doesn't have to be made just yet," Dr. Crawley reassures her. "If the baby's heartrate drops, though, all bets are off."

"Were you betting on that result?" Elsie jokes before a contraction makes her moan.

"Oh, I never bet. I just play gin rummy from time to time."

Twelve hours into labor…fourteen hours…seventeen…twenty.

Her contractions are coming so fast, she has no time to recover from them.

 _I knew it would be difficult, but not THIS difficult._

Gaelic swear words and nonsense stuff all pour from her mouth. She doesn't _mean_ to shout at Dr. Crawley, or Mam, but she does.

"I'm never touching a man again," she cries. Her " _NEVER!_ " Another contraction throttles her, and she screams. She's on her hands and knees, a position which has helped throughout the day, but at this point, nothing does.

 _I hate Joe Charlie every man on earth – oh god let it END._

The clock's hands show half past eleven, nearing midnight, when it does end.

Pain, pain everywhere, but somehow her body knows what to do, the contractions, the hideous terrible contractions, Mam saying something, Dr. Crawley calling for Elsie to push again-

 _I CAN'T FUCKING PUSH-NOT_ _ **AGAIN**_

And somehow she does, everything in her willing for it to be over, sick of Mam at her side, sick of the doctor talking, sick of the hospital and its beige walls and bright lights-

She's shaking, crying, hot and cold all at once. Everything feels sticky and clammy. Mam's voice is at her ear, and she is suddenly aware that her mother is crying too, murmuring-

"…lass, my dear girl, thank God, you were wonderful, oh he's beautiful-"

 _He?_

The fog in her mind clears. Dr. Crawley is in front of her, at the end of the bed. A red, skinny infant with a mass of dark hair wails in her arms.

 _Leaf._

"It's a boy," the doctor announces.

"A boy," whispers Elsie.

 _My lad. My son._

 _Today is your birthday._

It feels like her life is condensed into the heartbeats that it takes her to blink, to focus on her son.

 _I'm not alone anymore._

"Let me see him. I want to see him. I want…" She can't speak. Tears pour down her cheeks. Everything, the last nine months, Rusty's, a glass of water, dancing with a tall man named Charlie, a single night. Joe, hopes for the future, hopes dashed. Betrayed. Mam comforting her, Mam furious with her. Becky's innocence. A choice. A bus ride on a windy day, a red leaf clinging to a tree branch.

Finishing uni. Lectures, people staring at her and her belly. Work, worry, day-to-day hardship, waddling across the stage at graduation. Waiting.

Life, and love.

Her bawling son is placed into her arms. Despite his seemingly small size, his head certainly isn't. His skinny arms are attached to wide shoulders.

Elsie can't place who he looks like, if he looks familiar. Whose features he has.

"Hello, lad," she says, smoothing back his hair. Close up, it looks very dark. It might be dark brown, or black.

It doesn't matter.

"I'm your Mam," she says through her tears, gulping air. "I love you."

* * *

Dr. Crawley sticks her head in the door. "I just wanted to say good night, in case I didn't see you". Mam gestures her in. Elsie is too busy looking at her boy. His tiny fingers are curled around her index finger.

 _When I said I'd never touch a man again…of course I didn't mean you._

"You're settling in then," Dr. Crawley smiles fondly at the three of them – mother, son, grandmother. "Good."

Elsie tears her eyes away from her son. There is so much to say, and yet only one thing she can say. "Thank you, Doctor." Her voice is still hoarse. "Thank you _so_ much."

"You're very welcome. Does your son have a name?"

"He does," Elsie kisses the top of his head. She's never smelled such a sweet scent.

"What?" Mam cries. "What is it? You didn't tell me you had a name for him!"

"You'd convinced me he was a girl," Elsie raises an eyebrow. "I had several girl names ready. But there's only one boy name I'd ever consider. I'm naming him after Mac. And not just to get on your good side."

Mam's eyes well up. "I don't doubt it. You loved him too...he would've loved that."

"Who's Mac?" The doctor asks, looking from one woman to the other.

"My granddad. Mam's da," Elsie tells her. "He lived with us for a while when I was growing up." She clears her throat. "Dr. Crawley, meet Thomas Mackenzie Hughes."

She calls him Thomas.

* * *

 **A/N 2 : According to my research (the Internet, so it's possible it's wrong), there was no DNA testing in 1977. So Elsie really had no reliable way of knowing who Thomas's biological father was when he was born.**

 **A quick word about the choice(s) Elsie makes here. I have a strong opinion about abortion, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss my personal view. If you really want to know, go ahead and message me.**

 **In regards to this story, like Isobel says, "I don't pass judgment." It is an extraordinarily personal and delicate choice that any woman in Elsie's situation has to make. She's so young here, finishing up university, worrying about what comes next (and having the rug pulled out from under her emotionally – thanks Joe! And really, Charles too), and wanting to help take care of Becky like she's done all her life. In the end, she makes a decision here that's what SHE wants, without regard to what other people think. I like Elsie's Mam Sarah here; in my head, she's had an even tougher life than her daughter, and it's made her rough around the edges. But at heart, she's a good person who has tried to raise her daughters to the best of her ability.**

 **I could blab more about other people and situations (Joe mostly), but it's well past time for you all to tell me what you think.**

 **I'll try (really, really, pinky swear) to get another update posted as soon as possible. Like before another month goes by.**


	6. But You're Not Really Here

**A/N: Hi. I'm back. It's been way too long with this one.**

 **TW for sensitive issues regarding molestation. I really only alluded to it but I wanted to be safe. And no, this entire gargantuan chapter is not** _ **all**_ **bad.**

 **I've got more to say, but it will wait for the end.**

 **Onward…**

* * *

 _ **February, 2018**_

Elsie sits on the sofa, blankets piled on top of her.

 _Can't get warm…_

A spasm of cold ripples through her, and she clutches the red fleece closer. Sipping a bit of water, she finds her glass empty far sooner than she likes. She stares at it, then glances at Scissors, who's cuddled next to her.

"Would you mind getting me more water?" she rasps at the black and white feline. Talking makes her cough.

The sound of her mobile on the opposite side of the sofa forces Elsie to move much faster than she wants to.

"Hello?" She asks rather breathlessly. In the split second between her answering and the other person responding, she wonders if it's Thomas. It wouldn't surprise her. Lately he's been calling her every day – sometimes more than once.

" _Hi, Mum."_

It's Anna.

"Hi," Elsie says, suppressing a cough. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you now."

" _My next class isn't until after lunch. I thought I'd ring you while I had the chance."_

"And what would the headmistress say if she saw the English teacher on her mobile? Not a very good example-to students-" Elsie can't hold back the tickle in her throat. She tries to muffle her coughing, but she's well aware of how it must sound.

" _She'd understand. This flu's been horrible. How are you? Has your fever gone down at all?"_

"A bit." Elsie says, though in reality she doubts it. She shuffles to her feet. Her muscles protest the movement, especially when she almost trips over String. The tomcat yowls, then jumps onto the sofa next to his sister.

" _Mmmm. Your cough sounds awful."_

"Well, I'm doing my best to get rid of it," Elsie mutters. She refills her cup, trying to ignore the dirty dishes in the sink. And the dirty floor.

" _We'll stop by tonight. After dinner."_

"Oh no," Elsie groans, carrying her cup back into the living room and sinking gratefully back down onto the sofa. "You and John deserve a nice date night without dragging your old mother into it. Besides, I don't want either of you catching the flu."

" _He already had it last month, and I spend my days around schoolchildren. We'll risk it."_ There is concern in Anna's voice. _"We're worried about you, Mum. Just as much as Thomas and Edward. Don't overdo it and clean the house. It's just us. We'll come by for a little while, just to see how you're doing. Or else we'd worry."_

A lump forms in Elsie's throat that has nothing to do with her illness. "Well, we can't have that," she whispers. "I'll see you both tonight. I love you."

" _Love you, Mum."_

Elsie leans back on the pillows, arranging the blankets so that she's totally covered. Scissors lays down by her feet, and String nestles right next to her arm.

She falls asleep as the cats stay by her. Her dreams linger in the past.

* * *

 _ **June-December, 1978**_

Mam is right. Elsie's life is far harder than she ever could have imagined.

Thomas is a good baby – at least, that is what every mother around her says.

" _He ate right away? My daughter wouldn't latch right off. It was hell. You're so lucky!"_

" _Luke woke up constantly when he was a baby, and he STILL doesn't sleep through the night. He's almost four. At least Thomas lets you sleep!"_

But she usually only gets to sleep in the recliner chair, since her baby stubbornly refuses to drift off unless he's in her arms, or Mam's.

 _Sleep?_

 _What is it, and who needs it?_

 _Me._

She gets used to catching catnaps during the day, throughout the weeks following Thomas's birth. At times she feels like she gets _almost_ enough sleep, but never complete rest. As much as Mam helps with the baby, and enjoys spending time with him, Elsie feels like she is always thinking about him. Worrying. Wondering if he's hungry, or wet, or is too hot or too cold.

 _Well. I'm a mum now._

She keeps getting advice from a few of her neighbors in regards to childcare. It drives her insane.

"Don't listen to Gloria," Mam tells Elsie one evening, after their neighbor had trapped the young mother outside for ten minutes. "Don't listen to any of them." She sways from side to side, Thomas in her arms.

"She told me he'll struggle to get weaned if I don't switch to the bottle now," Elsie frets. She runs a hand through her hair. "And then she went on and on about how I shouldn't lay him on his back in his crib-"

"You haven't been, and neither have I. Lass, everyone thinks they know best about how to raise _your_ child, and they're all too eager to tell you you're doing it wrong."

"But what if I _am?_ " Elsie asks, feeling tears well up in her eyes. She sniffs. It's her biggest fear.

That she isn't a good mother.

That Thomas would be better off with someone else.

"You're not," Mam clicks her tongue at Thomas. He stirs in her arms and waves a little fist in the air. "Believe me, if you don't believe yourself." Thomas snuffles, and she moves him so his head is on her shoulder. He burrows his face into her shirt, getting more agitated by the second. "Oh lad, you won't find what you want from me. Here," she kisses her grandson before handing him to Elsie.

Elsie calms down while nursing Thomas, humming under her breath.

She often re-reads the note Isobel Crawley had written to her the week after her son was born.

… _you will be a good mother. Trust your instincts; remember, you know your son better than_ _anyone_ _else. He's very fortunate to have you._

She feels fortunate to have the doctor's respect. Whenever the note is not enough encouragement, she can look at what came with it: a stroller. The gift is a symbol of trust, and, Elsie thinks, a not-so-subtle slap at those who look down on single mums.

"Girls will carry the evidence of love, and they will be condemned for it*," Mam had told her once when she was younger. Then, Elsie had thought that the saying applied to Da leaving and not coming back.

She knows better now.

It takes willpower to not be rude when another nosy neighbor asks repeatedly where Thomas's father is. Or to break down when she struggles alone on the bus with her bags of groceries in one arm, while her baby screams in the other, and it feels like everyone's staring at them.

It takes a great deal more willpower for Elsie to leave her son at the daycare the first morning she has to begin her job at Lucille's. Thomas starts crying a minute before she leaves, and his wails follow her out the door. She fights back tears on the bus and escapes into the ladies' room at lunchtime to have a good cry.

 _I don't_ _want_ _to leave him, but I have to!_

Hardly a day goes by when she doesn't feel overwhelmed by her emotions.

Mrs. Bonita Martin, called Bonnie, is the co-owner of Lucille's, along with her husband Jim. She trains Elsie in her new job as accountant/bookkeeper, as well as teaching her all the other aspects of the catering company.

But she becomes much more than a teacher.

In mid-October she corners Elsie in the hallway before their meeting with a new client.

"Here," she says softly, handing the young woman a tissue. "You've got a bit of mascara on your cheek, below your right eye."

"Thank you." Embarrassed, Elsie dabs at her face. Tears form in her eyes, and she simultaneously wants to give into them again as well as scream in frustration.

 _Why can't I control myself? Crying at odd moments-_

"I need to talk to you," Bonnie says. She steers Elsie into a storage room. An old desk and several filing cabinets line the walls.

"What is it?" Elsie asks, her heart beating faster as Bonnie closes the door behind them. She wonders about the client, a businessman, who's waiting for them.

To her surprise, Bonnie laughs at little, shaking her head. "Elsie Hughes, you are a marvel. You are always professional, always courteous, and once you've learned a task, you don't forget it. I know," she said, holding up her hands, "That doesn't mean you've never made a mistake, but you are the first person to recognize it. Jim and I are very pleased with your work."

"Thank you," Elsie says, feeling confused. She had thought she was about to get a lecture instead of a compliment.

Bonnie's dark eyes soften. "I've never known anyone to be harder on themselves than you. You're a new mum, with _two_ jobs, helping your mother pay for Becky's care. And yet you seem to be ashamed of showing any weakness."

The lump in Elsie's throat is painful. "You hired me to do a job. Not complain."

"You're not a robot, dear," Bonnie says. "You think we don't notice when you come in each morning with red-rimmed eyes? Or when you go off to the ladies' room for fifteen minutes, and come back with re-applied makeup? You just had a baby in June. Your hormones are all over the place-"

"Is that what it is?" Elsie whispers, pressing the crumpled tissue against her eyes. She's lost the battle with her tears.

"More than likely." Bonnie puts a hand on her shoulder. "That, and you miss Thomas. There's nothing _wrong_ with that! I was your age when we started the business. Jeff was six months old, and leaving him every day tore my heart out. Jim found me at least twice a day in tears. He understands," she hands Elsie another tissue. "My husband is not comfortable talking about these things – men usually aren't – but he's not going to sack you for crying. And if he even thought about it, he'd have _me_ to deal with."

Elsie laughs at Bonnie's expression through her tears. It is a relief to know that someone understands, that someone cares.

She has never liked wallowing in what life has thrown at her. It's hardly helpful. Mam is not unfeeling or unsympathetic, but Elsie does not like to make their daily existence harder on her mother by crying in front of her too often.

But being honest with herself, she realizes she's been placing a burden on her own shoulders, one that she cannot hope to hold forever.

 _I have to be open to other people. That doesn't mean I wear my heart on my sleeve – I doubt I'll ever do that – but it does mean that I can't shut myself off._

 _No matter how much it might hurt me later._

 _No matter how much it HAS hurt me._

At times she thinks of Joe, of what his life might be like. She still feels flashes of anger towards him. Though she also thinks that he's likely reaping what he sowed – living with a wife he didn't expect, and a child he didn't plan for.

She wonders where Charlie is. If he ever went back to Rusty's to look for her.

If he remembers her at all.

While she's nodding off on the bus one evening in early December, she thinks that if he _did_ come back to the bar, he wouldn't find her. Because she left.

 _Well,_ she shifts uncomfortably on her seat, the cold from the window seeping through her hair, _if he would've come back at all, he would have done it sooner. While I was still there._

 _If he meant what he said._

 _Which he obviously did not._

She does not spend a lot of time dwelling on the men who've left her, though. Her little man is the only one that matters.

Thomas's growth astonishes her, though he never acquires the cuddly baby fat of some of his peers. Mam says not all babies look like Winston Churchill. Some look like Mahatma Gandhi.

"Then he must be Gandhi with hair," Elsie snorts with laughter, lifting her wriggling son out of his bath one night. Some of the hair he had when he was born has gone, but he's kept most of it. It certainly makes him stand out against other bald-headed babies. "What do you think?" she coos to him, wrapping him in a soft towel. "I think you look quite handsome, my lad." She kisses him, nuzzling his cheek.

She lays him down on the kitchen counter and goes to empty his bath down the drain.

"A very handsome, and sleepy bairn," Mam puts a fresh diaper on him and snaps him into his pajamas. Thomas stretches his arms above his head, his little mouth open as he yawns. "Soon he'll be too big to put in the sink. We'll have to put him in the tub."

"Thank God we have one now." Elsie takes Thomas from Mam. "Is your headache better?"

"The aspirin helped," Mam brushes her fingers across her forehead. "Enough that I can go to work without feeling like someone's hammering my skull."

Elsie winces at the mental picture. "Maybe you should go to the doctor. You never used to have headaches like these."

"It's stress," Mam says with authority. "And getting used to a little one who wakes at odd times. Not that I hold that against him," she kisses Thomas's head.

"I wish you could stay home tonight," Elsie sighs. "Get some rest."

"Ach, no," her mother pulls on her coat and grabs her keys. "If I stayed home, I'd just be awake all night worrying about how to pay the bills. Goodnight my lamb," she croons to Thomas. "Sleep well for your poor mam. _She_ needs her sleep!"

She gives Elsie a hug and kiss and leaves for her shift at the diner, Jack's Place. It's the same one where Elsie works several evenings a week, and on weekends. Mother and daughter work alternate evenings during the week, so the other can stay at home with Thomas.

"Home" is no longer the apartment. November had arrived with them moving into a rental house. Elsie had thought that it was too large for the three of them (though it is, in reality, very modest), but Mam had pointed out that Thomas would not stay small forever.

That they would need room for him to grow.

December finds Elsie busier than ever. Though Lucille's is booked solid at events through the month, requiring a lot of overtime, she finally feels as though she's hitting her stride. She feels more confident in both her job and her role as a mum.

On Christmas Eve night, Mam surprises her by bringing Becky to the house. Thomas is introduced to his aunt properly. He seems to be as taken by her as she is by him, staring up at her with wide eyes.

He doesn't even seem to mind when Becky wraps garland around him and covers him with reindeer stickers. Mam laughs until she cries when she and Elsie finally see him festooned in the leftover Christmas decorations.

 _He will not thank me for this later,_ Elsie thinks as she snaps a picture of her boy. _But for now, it is a sweet memory._

* * *

Elsie had thought since Thomas was born that her life was divided between the time before he was there, and the time after.

The 26th of December, 1978, becomes another stark dividing line.

It is a Tuesday. For once, neither Mam nor Elsie has to go to work right away. Mam is home for the day, and Elsie is scheduled for an evening shift at Jack's.

She never goes to work.

That afternoon, Elsie runs to the drugstore around the corner while Mam and Thomas are asleep. It is when she comes back and sees her mother slumped in the recliner that her world shatters.

Her mother appears to be asleep, but she is most certainly not.

Afterward, the events that afternoon – that day – are hazy, as if Elsie lives them in the middle of a fog. She can remember screaming, trying to resuscitate Mam, then ringing Emergency. A neighbor arrives and stays with Thomas.

But she has no memory of ringing either Bonnie, or Diane Andrews, her boss at Jack's. Only that both women are at the hospital with her when she's told that Mam is gone.

Them holding her up.

 _Mam._

 _Brain aneurysm._

 _Dead._

Images flicker in her mind. The funeral director holding her hand as she weeps in his office. Jim Martin feeding Thomas a bottle at the flat. Becky staring blankly, not understanding.

Mam lying still in the coffin, wearing her favorite green coat.

It snows the night before Sarah MacKenzie is laid to rest. The day she is to be buried is a frigid one, with a blustery wind.

Even the heat cranked up in Mr. Martin's sedan cannot break the cold completely. Elsie blinks, sitting in the middle of the backseat between Diane and Becky. Thomas curls his fingers against her index finger and she flinches.

Looking down at him, she feels as though she's awakened from a very deep sleep. One glance through the front windshield makes her wish she was still out of it. At least until the funeral service is over.

 _Following the hearse._

Jim and Bonnie are quiet in the front seat. Jim slows down as they approach a red light that's just turned green, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle with the blowing snow.

Elsie glances to her right, towards Becky. Her sister is humming under her breath. If she understands at all what is happening, she does not show it. Elsie bites her lip to keep herself quiet. Tears leak out of her eyes and drip down her face.

Outside the car, a man shuffles along the sidewalk, his broad shoulders hunched against the wind.

Elsie watches him as they move past.

 _Who would be walking outside on a day like this? It's freezing!_

 _He might be out in the cold, but at least he's not burying his mother._

There is something familiar about him…

"Elsie?" Diane says softly.

Turning her gaze from the window, Elsie looks to her left. The manager at Jack's hands her a tissue.

"We were talking, Bonnie and Jim and I…we'll stay right by you. None of your relatives will get near you. Unless you _want_ them to."

"Thank you," Elsie dabs at her face. A cold lump settles in her belly. It's been years since she's seen any of Mam's family. She was too young at her grandmother's funeral to fully understand the tension between her mother and her aunts. She knows all too well now about greed and false piety.

And hypocrisy.

At the church, she recognizes all of the MacKenzie clan on sight. The Martins and Diane walk on either side of Elsie and Becky like bodyguards. A few other staff from Jack's arrive shortly after, to support them.

 _They loved Mam, too._

They all cannot shield Elsie fully from her relatives' stares, or their whispering following her like a foul odor.

There are details she can't help but notice – a large diamond ring on one aunt's finger, a younger cousin wearing a cashmere sweater.

 _Mac's money put to good use, eh?_

Nearly all of what Mam had inherited from her parents is gone, spent to support them and to pay Becky's numerous medical bills.

 _None of the rest of them ever lifted a finger to help us after Da left._

The funeral service itself is short. It's mostly platitudes, but Elsie is grateful for the pastor's emphasis on mercy.

"'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest," the man reads. "'Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light*.'"

Weeping silently, Elsie feels relief even through her grief.

 _Mam, you can rest now. No more burdens._

She tries not to think about the added burdens she will carry alone, and fails.

There is a meal provided after the service. On Elsie's way back to the church hall from the restroom, someone grabs her shoulder and spins her around. She punches on instinct and narrowly misses the man's face.

When she sees who it is, she wishes she had hit her mark.

"Whoa!" Donald MacKenzie holds up his hands, laughing. "It's me, lassie. Don't you remember your old Uncle Don?"

 _All too well._

His hands used to linger too long on her when he hugged her as a child. He'd touch her constantly whenever she was in reach, or pull her hair. During the rare times they saw him, Elsie learned early on to keep out of his way. And she made sure Becky did, too.

Mam's sisters were all blind to it. In their eyes, their brother could do no wrong.

Even when he had hurt some of their own children.

 _Mam was not blind._

"I remember you," Elsie says. She starts walking, fast, not wanting to be backed into a corner. Don follows her.

"I'm sorry about Sarah…she didn't deserve to go like that. I tried to keep in touch-"

 _I'm sure you did._

Bile rises in her throat.

"-but your mam was a stubborn woman. MacKenzie to the core. So are you, lassie."

She's always hated his nickname for her.

 _You don't know WHO in the hell I am._

Elsie speeds up. By the time she reaches the hall, she is almost running. She only wants to get out, to leave the lot of them behind; to go home and cuddle Thomas, and mourn Mam alone.

Her heart skips when she sees the table she'd left. Becky, sitting surrounded by Elsie's coworkers. Thomas in Diane's arms. Jim Martin, his arm around Bonnie.

 _I'm not alone._

"We're leaving," Elsie tells them. Bonnie helps Becky up from her chair without a word. Diane hands Thomas to Elsie. The baby stirs a little, fussing.

"I'll get our coats," Diane says.

Nodding, Elsie rubs her cheek against Thomas's forehead. "Shhhh," she murmurs. Behind her, Donald calls after her.

"Lassie! What's the rush? I haven't seen you or Rebecca in years – and I haven't met your son."

 _I don't want you to meet him._

 _I don't want you to touch him._

"He's family, too," Donald says, in a louder voice. "Even if he is a bastard."

The room goes completely silent.

All the blood drains out of Elsie's face.

"How _dare_ you-" Bonnie spits out, but Mam's older brother cuts her off.

"-he is, isn't he, lassie?" Donald cocks his head, a mean smile on his lips. "You wouldn't have dared add MacKenzie to your boy's name if my Da was still alive…he wouldn't be too proud of you, either. His favorite granddaughter Elsie. The slu _t_." He draws out the word, clearly enjoying her fury.

Elsie steps forward. She is grateful for Thomas in her arms. Otherwise, she would likely do something she'd regret. " _You_ are the bastard," she says in a voice like ice, her eyes not leaving Donald's face. "You hated Mam, and us, because Gran and Mac never threw us aside. Because Mac saw who you _really_ are. A monster, hiding behind money and your family." She lifts her chin and turns to face her aunts, who have crossed the room towards them. "I'm done with you. With all of you."

Without another word, she turns and walks toward the doors.

She doesn't look back.

* * *

 _ **She works the nights, by the water…**_

 _ **She just wants a life for her baby**_

 _ **All on her own, no one will come**_

 _ **She's got to save him…**_

 _ **She tells him, "Your life ain't gonna be nothing like my life**_

 _ **You're gonna grow and have a good life**_

 _ **I'm gonna do what I've got to do…"**_

 _ **So rockabye baby, rockabye…**_

 _ **-Rockabye, Clean Bandit**_

 _ **January 1979-June 1979**_

Elsie keeps thinking that Mam is out, at work or running errands or visiting Becky, and that her mother will walk through the door any moment.

She's in denial. She knows she's in denial, but she can't seem to stop herself.

Even after she goes through Mam's things.

Mam had worn Gran's wedding ring. It's too big for Elsie to wear – except on the ring finger on her left hand. There, it fits perfectly.

She wears it on her hand, though she is keenly aware of what the symbolism is. Somehow she knows Mac would approve.

Diane's teenaged daughter sometimes looks after Thomas when Elsie works nights at Jack's. When the girl can't, Elsie takes her son to the diner, where the plan is to let him sleep in a playpen in the tiny back office.

That's the _plan_.

More often, he only goes to sleep in his mother's arms. So Elsie carries him in one arm, his little head on her shoulder, in the wee hours of the morning while she waits on the few customers who come in.

They are mostly truckers, or workers getting off the night shift. Anyone who needs strong coffee and a late supper or early breakfast. Some of them play peek-a-boo with Thomas, or offer to hold him for her. Elsie always declines the requests, partly out of a need to protect her boy, and also because she doubts he'll sleep in anyone else's arms.

She does relent during one shift on a freezing night soon after Mam's funeral. Thomas had fallen asleep earlier, but every time she attempts to lay him down, he wakes.

"Let me hold him," Darren says when she takes his empty plate. He wipes egg off his stubbly chin with a napkin. "It'd give you a rest for a while. It can't be easy stacking plates or wiping the counter down with one hand. Though you're doing a good job with it."

"Thank you. I wish you could hold him for a bit," she sighs. "But my lad refuses to sleep anywhere but on me." She and Darren smile when Thomas lets out a puff of air. The baby's head is heavy on her shoulder, and his little arm slung around her neck is making her exceedingly warm.

"Please let me try," Darren moves his coffee cup aside, holding out his hands. "You need a break."

Elsie shoves his plate into the large plastic bin behind her, praying it won't start an avalanche of dirty dishes onto the floor. It doesn't.

She has to take the tub back to the kitchen before the morning rush, but there's no way she can lift it with one arm.

She studies Darren for a moment. He's one of the regulars at Jack's, though the times he comes in are all over the place. He works odd hours. Something Diane had told her sticks with Elsie.

 _He runs the men's shelter on the south side._

Jack's Place often donates food there.

She bites her lip. "All right. Let's try."

Moving Thomas from her shoulder, she holds him out. Darren deftly catches him and slides the baby onto his shoulder.

Thomas doesn't stir, and continues to sleep.

After a minute Elsie lets out a breath in relief. "Well. I should've tried that an hour ago!" She rubs her shoulder, and it cracks, making her wince.

"An hour ago, I was outside in the cold," Darren grins. "Go on, do what you have to do. I'll just sit right here. If he wakes up, I'll yell for you."

She carries the heavy tub back to the kitchen. Then she clears the rest of the counter and straightens up most of the booths, and mops the floor.

In all that time, Thomas doesn't wake.

"You're a natural," she tells Darren, leaning on the mop by the front doors. "Do you have children?"

"No. The men I look after are like my kids." Darren rubs Thomas's back. "Believe it or not, a lot of them are like your son…just bigger." He lightly touches the baby's nose. "They want a safe place to rest for a bit. That's all."

Her heart aches. _There are others with worse lives than mine._

"I'm sorry I'm keeping you from them," she says quietly.

"You aren't. Sam's there tonight. Anyway, I have to pick up someone at the hospital before I go back to the shelter."

Elsie puts the mop and bucket away. Outside, the sun has risen and the light has bathed the inside of the diner in an orange glow.

She reaches for Thomas after emerging from the back. "I'll take him now. We've both got to eat before I take him to daycare." Louie's cooking her breakfast. The smell of potatoes and bacon frying makes her stomach growl. The baby flinches when Darren hands him over, waking up.

"You're going to another job?" Darren raises his eyebrows. "After staying up all night?"

She's used to it. "I'll get off mid-afternoon today, so I can sleep then. I don't have to be back here until Saturday morning. I manage," she says at his doubtful expression.

"You'll run yourself into the ground." He stands up, putting on his coat. He returns his ball cap to his flattened hair.

"No rest for the wicked," she jokes. "Everyone I work with is very accommodating." _Fortunately._

 _But I have to pay the bills._

 _There's no one else to help._

Thomas fusses as she gently taps his face. "C'mon, lad. Time to wake," she bounces from one foot to the other.

Darren zips up his coat. "Keep the change." He slips a five across the counter.

"Thank you," she smiles, distracted by Thomas wriggling in her arms.

"You're welcome. I hope you get a good rest later. Have a nice day, Mrs. Hughes," Darren waves and holds the door open for a couple of waitresses coming in.

 _ **Mrs**_ _…?_

Her head snaps up.

 _Why did he call me-_

 _Gran's ring._

 _MY ring._

It feels heavy on her left hand.

"You too," she says quietly, her tired mind both wanting to correct him and not wanting to correct him at the same time.

The next week at Lucille's, meeting alone with a bride-to-be alone, she's called by the title again. She doesn't correct the woman.

Neither Bonnie nor Jim do either, when they hear others say it. Neither of them say anything to Elsie, but there isn't a need for it.

The title is armor – a sign of respect, and it keeps a lot of people from asking her too many questions. Elsie doesn't lie when asked directly about her "husband".

But often there are things she does not say, and she lets most people come to the wrong conclusion. She doesn't suffer a lot of guilt over it. She carries enough guilt as it is.

Sometimes she is furious at the world – furious at Joe, for being with someone else and leaving her; the long-gone Charlie, wherever he is, for lingering at the edges of her heart and in her memory; at Mam, for dying; at Becky, for being dependent instead of a sister she could have relied on.

She is never angry at Thomas. But she catches herself thinking of him as a burden, which always causes tremendous guilt.

 _It's not his fault. He's your son! He's only a child!_

At times she wonders if it would not have been better – for him certainly – if she had given him up. The very thought almost causes her heart to break.

 _If I had, I would have been truly alone._

It is he who keeps her going, he who keeps her from losing her hope and sanity together.

Even after paying Mam's funeral expenses, money is exceptionally tight. The first major hurdle Elsie faces is paying for Thomas's daycare. Once again, the Martins come to her rescue. They suggest she keep Thomas with her at Lucille's.

"But what about when he gets older and starts moving about? I don't want him confined to an office," Elsie protests. "He should be able to play and explore."

 _I want him to have as much of a childhood as he can._

 _Not like me._

 _I had to grow up too fast._

But she doesn't have another option. Not really.

"When that time comes, reevaluate your situation," Jim tells her. "For now, it's fine with us if you want to have him with you."

She does enjoy having Thomas nearby – _very_ nearby. Usually he's on a handsewn quilt on the floor mere feet from her desk. He rolls about, and chews on a red teething ring. Sometimes she picks him up and has him on her lap if he gets fussy.

Unnoticed by her, Jim takes a picture of the two of them through her open door. It becomes one of her favorite pictures. Her intent on her work, and her tiny boy looking in the same direction, his face scrunched up, as if he's trying to read the spreadsheet as well.

As winter drags on, seemingly forever, another fear takes root. It grows as she can see the numbers in her checkbook.

She _is_ an accountant, after all.

The house that she and Mam had rented is far too expensive for her to pay alone. The bills for Becky's care are unrelenting, and even with the added money Elsie can save with keeping Thomas with her, it's not enough.

Not even close to enough.

Very early on a Saturday morning in the spring she breaks down crying in a booth at Jack's. She hates spilling her troubles to anyone other than her bosses, but she's at the end of her rope.

"Tell Diane," Chrissy, one of the waitresses, says, wide-eyed. She hands Elsie a Kleenex. "Or Bonnie and Jim. They'll help you-"

"They've all done more than enough," Elsie blows her nose. "I can't expect them to pay my rent for me, or find a place that'll work for me and Thomas." She chokes back another sob. "I've looked all over, trying to find a place that I can afford, where we won't have to ride the bus for hours to get either here or to Lucille's _and_ that's in a neighborhood where there isn't a mugging every other day. There isn't one."

 _They don't exist._

"My sister's friend has a spare room," Vanessa holds a cranky Thomas, bouncing him on her hip. "She'd probably rent it out to you, and at a decent rate. Her parents are loaded-"

Chrissy snorts. "Are you talking about Crystal? She's a student, that place won't take a baby. Sorry, TeeTee," she chirps to Thomas.

"Mrs. Hughes?" A soft voice causes the women to look around for its source.

A skinny boy with wispy brown hair sits at the end of the counter. His mound of pancakes are half-eaten. "My family's got a space at our house if you need it. A bedroom, and a little sitting room. My gran used to live with us until she…well, no one's there now. There's a bathroom off it, too. You and your baby could come and live with us."

Blinking, Elsie sniffs, wiping her eyes. If anything, she feels even more ashamed.

 _A stranger, a CHILD, feeling sorry for me!_

She can't think of the boy's name, but she knows his father is a florist. The man drops off his son at Jack's in the wee hours on Saturdays, goes to the market around the corner to pick up flowers, then comes back to eat breakfast himself. The boy looks like he's about twelve years old.

"You're very kind," she replies, her voice thick. "But I'm sure your parents won't agree to it."

"I think they will." His blue eyes are serious. Without another word, he turns and runs out the door, his too-large jacket billowing behind him.

Within twenty minutes he comes back with his father.

The florist is a small man, with a brown mustache. He offers to rent her the space for a nominal fee. When she protests that she and Thomas can't possibly intrude on their family, he shakes his head.

"The last thing you'd be doing is intruding," he tries to reassure her. "You and your son need a home. My wife and I and Joe can give you one. At least until you've got your feet underneath you."

"Would your wife really be comfortable having strangers in your home?" she asks, skeptical. "I don't even know your name."

He holds out his hand. "I'm Bill Molesley. And this is my lad, Joe."

"You can call me Joe or Joseph. I'll answer either way," the skinny boy says.

She shakes Bill's hand slowly. "I'm Elsie Hughes."

"Glad to meet you properly. Does this mean you accept my offer?" he asks.

She hesitates, knowing she should accept their generosity immediately. But her pride won't allow her to.

Yet.

"Tell you what," Bill says after a long pause. "You think about it. We'll be back here every Saturday through the spring. If you find something else, that's good. If not, my offer still stands."

No other suitable place is found. Two Saturdays later, with no other option in sight, she accepts Mr. Molesley's offer, and shortly thereafter she and Thomas move in with the florist's family.

Home is now two rooms, a bedroom and adjoining sitting room. There is a bathroom off of the bedroom, which Elsie is grateful for. The walls and floor of the suite are painted a reddish-pink, and the furniture and décor look like it hasn't changed since roughly 1958.

Still, Elsie knows beggars cannot be choosers.

Her landlords' gentleness helps soothe her wounded pride.

Bill's wife Nina is a quiet, shy woman, much like her husband. Her son Joseph looks a lot like her.

"It's nice to have someone living down the hall again," she confides to Elsie, helping the younger woman unpack. "I miss having my mother-in-law in the kitchen…us having a chat over tea."

It's different living with a traditional family. For Elsie, it's something she's never really had before. Mam was almost always gone when she was growing up, working multiple jobs.

It's hard to admit even to herself, as though she's betraying Mam's memory by even thinking it. But it is comforting to have someone fold laundry for her, or to see the outside light left on when she comes home late from working the evening shift at Jack's.

Not to mention the extra hands to help with Thomas.

Nina loves watching the baby, and she refuses any extra money from Elsie for looking after him.

"We tried for a long time after Joseph was born," she says early one morning in the semi-dark kitchen, before Elsie leaves to catch the bus. "I finally got pregnant again five years ago…our boy was _so_ excited. He'd always wanted a little brother or sister."

"What happened?" Elsie picks up her purse. Though it feels necessary to ask, she dreads the answer to her question.

"I miscarried." There is sadness in Nina's voice that is palpable. "It was hard of course, but the hardest part was seeing how devastated Joseph was. He's always been a sensitive soul."

"I'm very sorry," Elsie whispers after a long pause. She struggles not to cry. "You have a wonderful son, though. He will grow up to be a good man."

 _Everyone carries sadness and burdens with them. Too often we can't see any but our own._

As time goes by, she sees how much the Molesleys – all three of them – help to soothe others' troubles. When one of Becky's caregivers suddenly dies, Bill not only donates all the flowers for the woman's funeral, he also helps the other residents plant a flower garden in her memory. Nina somehow always manages to have something for Elsie when she gets home – _whenever_ she gets home. Either a late dinner, or lunch on a Saturday after the younger woman's helped at a wedding, or simply a cup of tea in the early morning. Joseph plays with Thomas or reads to him after he gets home from school.

One of Elsie's most cherished memories is of the evening in early June, only days before Thomas's first birthday.

She trudges from the bus stop after an all-night shift at Jack's, followed by a long day at the office trying to keep up with the swarm of business. This time of year it's graduation parties and weddings. She only wants to see Thomas, kick off her shoes, and sink into a chair. Joseph runs down the sidewalk towards her.

"Mrs. Hughes!"

"What is it?" she asks, alarmed.

"Come _quick_ – he's almost there-"

The lad is more excited than she's ever seen him. He grabs her wrist and drags her into the house. Hurrying behind him on very sore feet, Elsie stumbles into the living room just in time to see Thomas take his first, wobbly steps by the coffee table.

She picks up her boy, smothering him with kisses, laughing and crying at the same time. Bill claps from the recliner, and Nina laughs in the doorway, a dishcloth in her hand. All the while Joseph whoops and runs around the room as though his cricket team's just won the World Cup.

 _Just like they're our family too,_ Elsie thinks, her heart overflowing with gratitude.

Family is not just blood, she knows now.

She knows Mam would be happy for them.

* * *

 _ **March, 1984**_

Shifting in her seat, Elsie wills herself not to turn and look at the clock.

Not again.

The afternoon sun drifting through the conference room window tells her well enough what time it is.

 _We should have been out of here an hour ago._

 _I'll be late picking up Thomas from school!_

Both Nina and Joseph are helping Bill with the annual flower show. Elsie had thought she'd have plenty of time after her meeting to catch the bus.

But the people sitting around the table are in no hurry. If they weren't one of the Lucille's biggest clients, and if the Martins hadn't given her the primary responsibility over organizing their biannual retreat, Elsie silently fumes, she would've walked out long before.

Jim Martin coughs under his breath and gives her a sympathetic look as the chairman drones on.

It feels like half an hour has passed before the man takes a breath.

"Yes, I think we're all agreed on the major details. You're nothing if not thorough, David," the bearded man to the chairman's left says. He gives Elsie an apologetic smile. "We'll fax over the final schedule for the conference once we have it. I think that's all for now. Mr. Martin, Mrs. Hughes."

"Thank you, Mr. MacClare," they mutter, getting up. Elsie's knees crack.

In the elevator, Jim breathes out a frustrated sigh.

"Sorry about that. I should've _known_ Dave would drone on…the man has no sense of time. Thank God for Hugh. He knew we were keen to escape."

"Yes," Elsie says, distracted. She's determined to run to the bus stop, praying that she hasn't missed the 4:15. Her belly flips uneasily at the reminder of Hugh MacClare.

Jim clicks his ballpoint pen. "I think he likes you. Last Christmas at the benefit, every time Bonnie and I turned around, he was talking to you."

 _He_ _does_ _like me,_ Elsie thinks. _Too much._

She makes a mental note to talk to Bonnie. She doesn't want to get cornered again. It wasn't that Hugh was rude, or even that he made her feel uncomfortable.

 _His wife did. A shrew of a woman if I've ever seen one._

 _Now, now. She found her husband talking with another woman. A not bad-looking one, either._

Talking with the businessman had been…well, nice. He had even danced with her once.

But it had reminded her of what she was missing.

She has good friends, and a solid group around her. A healthy, growing son.

 _It's been a long time since I went on a date, much less did anything else._

She makes the 4:15 bus, running to get on just before it pulls away. She catches her breath once she's in her seat.

 _How pathetic is it that one evening lingers in my mind? A conversation with a married man, no less!?_

 _I don't even want…I'd never…not with him._

She looks out the window, not seeing the street going by. Bonnie had alluded to the evening shortly after the New Year. Mrs. Martin saw things a bit more clearly than her husband.

 _I am twenty-eight years old. My career is taking off. Thomas is thriving in school. What more do I want?_

 _A man._

 _You shouldn't want that, girl. They only cause trouble._

She swallows, clipping and unclipping the snaps on her satchel, just to give her fingers something to do. It doesn't help to drive away the unwelcome thoughts crowding her brain.

Thomas had asked her the previous autumn for the first time where his father was. Though she had long expected such a question, when the moment came, she'd been totally thrown off-kilter.

"He left," she'd told him as gently as she could. "I don't know where he is now."

Her then-five year old son had taken it in stride. More than one of his companions was growing up without a father in the home.

And how could he miss what he'd never known?

Elsie knew she would wait until Thomas was older to explain that she'd never married his father. Though that is what he, and many people around them, think. She still wears her grandmother's ring.

She isn't sure she will ever be able to tell him that she doesn't know for certain who his father is.

 _Someday he will see his birth certificate. Then he'll know the truth. It'll be there for him in black and white. "Father: Unknown."_

 _And he will_ _ **hate**_ _me._

A weight settles in her belly. The face of Joe Burns swirls in front of her.

Inevitably, her memory drifts to Charlie. Though she isn't sure if she can really remember his face clearly. Wiry eyebrows, a dark curl sticking to his forehead. A large nose. Big hands.

 _Big everything._

A warm blush covers her face, and she fans herself.

 _It wasn't just that!_

 _We talked. About nothing, but it felt like everything._

 _I_ _felt_ _something when we were together._

 _Is that what you and he were? Together?_

 _He's probably happily married with a couple of kids by now. He's long forgotten about me._

Thomas does not look like either of them, she thinks.

Except for his hair. Joe's hair was lighter, and Charlie had black hair.

 _But Thomas has_ _ **straight**_ _hair. Not a curl in sight._

Genetics are a funny thing, she muses. Her boy looks nothing like her. He could resemble a distant ancestor, and she wouldn't know. She doesn't remember what Patrick Hughes looked like, except that he had red hair.

 _Thomas certainly has my stubbornness_ , she thinks ruefully. _Of course._

"Next stop, Convention Center," the bus driver announces over the static-laden intercom. Elsie shakes herself.

The wind blows her bright hair sideways, but she isn't bothered by it. The sidewalks are crowded. Seeing the light about to turn red at the intersection, she jogs to cross before it changes.

A horn blares back in the street, but she's moved on.

* * *

In the wee hours, Elsie wakes from a sound sleep. For a moment there is no sound but the ticking of old Mrs. Molesley's clock. It sits on the vanity across from Elsie's bed. She can just make out the outline of the clock, along with a lumpy pile that is her and Thomas's clothes that she's yet to sort.

Then she hears it.

His small cough.

 _Oh NO._

She moves on instinct, out of bed in an instant, stepping on a toy car that Thomas forgot to put away. The sharp metal digs into her foot, making her bite her tongue, but she ignores the pain.

Scooping Thomas up from his little bed wedged in the corner, she runs him to the bathroom. He's heavy, but she's still able to carry him. His long legs bang against her torso as she rushes through the darkness. She doesn't quite make it to her destination before Thomas throws up.

On the bathroom floor, on the outside of the toilet, on her.

She swallows back her own nausea. "There, there, my lad," she whispers, rubbing his back, holding him steady over the toilet. "It's all right…"

He starts to cry when he's finished. "Mummy…" he blubbers, tears streaking down his cheeks, vomit on his chin. She strips off his dirty pajamas and washes him off with a cool washcloth. He doesn't cry often. As much as she hates to see him ill, she relishes the opportunity to dote on him.

The older he gets, the more independent he is.

The rest of the night is spent with her sitting next to his bed, and emptying the bowl every time he vomits. A 6am call to Bonnie gets her off work for the day. She can only pray that she doesn't catch whatever Thomas has.

Or that the Molesleys catch it.

 _After we move, I'll only have to worry about the two of us._

In a matter of weeks, she and Thomas will finally move out. Their new home is a second-floor apartment halfway across the city. It isn't the nicest neighborhood but it's safe, and close enough to Thomas's school and both of Elsie's jobs. Though she only works at Jack's now when Diane needs her to fill in for the odd evening or weekend shift.

Around ten in the morning Thomas is able to hold down water and a couple of saltine crackers. Elsie goes to the laundry room to switch his old sheets to the dryer, and to make sure all the stains are out of his and her pajamas.

For good measure, she washes the clothes again.

Thomas is still awake when she re-enters the bedroom. "Mum?"

She's at his side in an instant. "What is it? Are you going to be sick again-"

"No…" he shakes his head, lethargic.

"You need to sleep," she whispers, her hand on his head.

 _Thank God his fever's down._

"Can…can you sing Blue?"

She softens. "Yes. But you have to go to sleep." Rubbing her cheek against his forehead, she tucks his favorite blanket around him.

" _Song sung blue, everybody knows one_

 _Song sung blue, every garden grows one_

 _Me and you are subject to_

 _The blues now and then_

 _When you take a blues_

 _And make a song_

 _You sing 'em out again_

 _You sing 'em out again…"_

She stays home a second day with Thomas, simply to make sure he is really on the mend. There's no sense in sending him back to school if he'll suffer a relapse. Or make another child ill.

She takes a nap in the afternoon while he sleeps. Upon waking, she finds his bed empty.

He's in the kitchen with Joseph.

"What are you two doing?" she asks sleepily, not comprehending the mess on the table. It looks like wire, springs, bits of metal that she can't place. An open box sits near the older boy at one end of the table.

"Hello, Mrs. Hughes," Joseph looks up. "He wandered in here just a bit ago. Wanted to help – and he is."

"It's this one." Thomas holds up a gold spring. Joseph squints at it.

"It _looks_ like it. Let's try, all right?"

Joseph carefully takes the spring and screws it into the back of the box. Elsie realizes that it isn't a box at all, but a clock.

"You're right! That _is_ it. You're very clever," Joseph musses Thomas's hair. He grins when Thomas scowls and swipes his hand away. "And very particular about your appearance."

"Mum, I'm hungry," Thomas says. His attention is riveted on the various pieces in front of him. Elsie bites her lip to keep from laughing at his serious demeanor.

"That's good," she tells him. "It means you're getting better. How about some toast and soup? Would you like that?"

"Uh huh," Thomas has what looks like a large screw in his hand.

"Didn't quite hear that," she says. He huffs out a sigh, clearly annoyed at being distracted.

"Yes, _please_."

"Don't get cheeky with your mum," she waits until he looks up at her, then raises her eyebrows. "That's better."

"This is my grandfather's old clock," Joseph explains as she gets out the toaster. "It used to be in the shop. It got wet, so Dad sent it to a clockmaker. He built a new frame, but he had to take the whole thing apart to make sure all the pieces weren't damaged. Putting them all back together…Thomas seems to know how to do it better than _I_ can."

"Everyone has a different gift. You taught him to read during the summer," Elsie reminds the teenager.

As she toasts a slice of bread for her son (and a couple more for Joseph, for good measure), she wonders at Thomas's skill with clocks. It isn't the first time he's shown aptitude for it. He'd managed to tell Bill how to put in the new battery on Nina's wristwatch nearly a year before.

 _Where did THAT come from?_

 _It didn't come from me._

 _ **February, 2018**_

A thump on the floor, String leaping off the couch, wakes Elsie.

The lamp is on next to the window. Through the slit in her eyes she can see its glow. It's dark outside.

A muffled voice speaks nearby, one she knows. But she can't make the name go from her brain to her lips.

It's too hard.

Even opening her eyes takes effort.

It feels as though she is underwater. Trying to catch a breath, and failing.

 _Silly…you can't breathe underwater!_

A blurry figure hovers in the doorway to the kitchen. Two blurry figures. Talking.

The lamplight is too bright – too fierce – and Elsie shuts her eyes again.

Someone touches her shoulder. It hurts.

Why does everything hurt?

The voice has a low timbre. Gentle. Encouraging. An arm goes around her shoulders, lifting her head. Water on Elsie's cracked lips makes her eyes flutter open.

Charlie smiles at her. He sets the cup on the table next to the couch.

"I knew you'd-come," she whispers, sucking in a breath. "I knew you'd come back to me." She hopes he can hear her. She barely has a voice. His eyebrows furrow together, and she panics.

"Don't _l-leave_ ," she begs. _Mam's gone…_ Her heart constricts, and all air is cut off. Blackness seeps at the edges of her vision.

 _No…_

She only has enough air to say his name before everything goes dark.

"Charlie."

* * *

Anna paces in the kitchen, her phone at her ear. "Yes, my boyfriend's trying to give her water right now…she's had the flu for close to a week now."

"Anna!" John calls urgently.

She runs back in the living room, almost tripping over the cats. Her mum is slumped against the end of the couch, half sitting up. John hauls Elsie up a bit from where he sits next to her, but she doesn't respond.

"Is she _breathing?_ " Anna's voice cracks.

"Yes." John's jaw is firm. Tense. "Barely."

The voice on the phone asks a question.

"Y-yes," Anna mutters. "Yes," she repeats. "Yes, we're leaving now. Thank you."

She drops the phone into her purse, then hurries to help John.

"Mum," Anna touches her face. "Mum, it's me, we're taking you to the hospital."

Elsie's head bobs against her shoulder, and her mother mutters something unintelligible. Anna's heart clenches.

The door from the porch screeches, then slams shut. Heavy footsteps pound across the kitchen floor, and a moment later Thomas is standing there, snow melting off his boots onto the carpet.

"Phyllis hadn't heard from her, and I saw lights on here – _Mum!?_ "

John moves aside to let Thomas take his place. "We're taking her to the hospital now. I'll bring the car 'round," he says, then limps as fast as he can outside.

"I've got her. You get the lights," Thomas tells his sister. He gently picks Elsie up from where she's slumped on the couch and carries her into the kitchen, still wrapped in a blanket. "Mum…Mum," he kisses her, and rubs his cheek against her forehead. "Jesus _Christ_ – she's burning up."

"That's how we found her," Anna mutters, on the edge of tears. "I rang her earlier today, and said we'd stop by." She shuts off the lamp and follows Thomas, leaving only the kitchen light over the sink on. "I was just talking to Heather. You know, Gwen's friend. She's on duty tonight. She said to get Mum there as fast as we could." She zips up her coat. "Mum sounded bad this morning, but I didn't know she was _that_ ill…"

"None of us knew. It's not your fault, she never tells any of us how she really is. I'm glad you did come here," Thomas says as he nudges the door open. "Phil was about to come over here herself before I showed up."

The air is biting cold, finding its way through everything. Thomas tucks the blanket more securely around his mother. John's brought his car around, and Anna opens the back door for Thomas, helping him settle their mother in before she joins John in the front.

All along the long, slippery country road, Anna sits rigid, her phone clutched in her hands. When they reach the highway, she lets out a soft sigh and relaxes against her seat. John stares straight ahead.

From the backseat, Thomas begins to sing in a low voice.

 _Song sung blue, weeping like a willow_

 _Song sung blue, sleeping on my pillow_

 _Funny thing,_

 _But you can sing it with a cry in your voice_

 _And before you know it get to feeling good_

 _You simply got no choice…_

Elsie shifts a little in Thomas's arms. "Charlie," she rasps, then coughs.

"Mmm?" Thomas hums and rubs her back. His heart hammers. His mother is delirious, that much is certain, and it frightens him.

He doesn't have the faintest idea who Charlie is.

… _and when you take the blues and make a song, you sing 'em out again…_

They reach the hospital in record time. It isn't until after a long wait in Emergency that John sees Anna again, when she comes out alone. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

"C'mere, love," he whispers, and she sits down heavily, choking through her tears.

"They've admitted her. It's pneumonia," she manages to say, huddled in his arms. "We've never seen her so weak…it's just wrong, to see my mum like that…"

"I know." John fishes out a tissue from her purse for her. "Your mother's a strong woman. Is Thomas with her?"

"He went out in the hall to ring Edward," Anna dabs at her face and sits up. "I wanted to give him privacy, and to tell you where Mum is."

"I've never heard him sing," John says as they walk through the maze of hallways to Elsie's room. "I know he does at church sometimes with Edward's choir…I never would've thought he'd like Neil Diamond."

Anna squeezes his hand. "Mum used to sing us 'Song Sung Blue' when we were ill."

"Ah."

The three of them meet with the doctor. According to Heather, Elsie's dehydrated and being given strong antibiotics.

"We'll look after her. If I were you, I'd go home and get some sleep," the nurse says. "She's going to be here for several days at least."

"You go home and rest," Thomas orders Anna. "I told Edward I'd be staying here tonight. Phil will drive my car back to my place in the morning, pick him up and bring him here."

"How will she get home, then?" Anna asks, frowning. "Joseph can't leave school in the middle of the morning."

"She said Bill would take her back to the farm. He's retired now, remember? She said he drives other folks to doctor appointments and such all the time."

Anna bites her lip. "I don't know…"

John glances at Anna. "I think your brother's right. I'll take you home so you can get some sleep."

"For once Mr. Bates and I agree," Thomas gives him a tight smile. Anna looks from one to the other.

"Fine," she says. "I'll go to the loo, then we'll go."

Thomas and John stand outside in the hallway. "We both have more in common than you think," John says quietly, leaning against the wall. "Both of us care about Anna. In different ways. And I care about your mother. I'm sorry she's so poorly right now."

"Thanks." Thomas's voice is raspy. He stares at the tiled floor. "I've never seen her like that…she was delirious in the car, saying things…"

"What did she say? She called me another name at the house," John crosses his arms.

"What did she call you?" Thomas's head snaps up.

"Charlie."

Thomas's eyes go wide. "She called you that too?"

"She called _you_ Charlie?" John asks incredulously.

Nodding, Thomas stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. "I don't know anyone she knows called Charlie, except Ethel's son…maybe she was talking about him."

 _But I doubt it._ His unspoken words hang in the air.

Thomas hugs Anna before she leaves with John. "If anything changes, I'll ring you," he says, kissing the top of her head. "I'll text you in the morning before school with an update. Go sleep. Take a sleep aid if you have to."

"I will." Anna squeezes his arm, shadows under her eyes. " _You_ try to get some sleep here."

Elsie's room is in semi-darkness, with a light on near the door. Thomas moves a chair over so he can hold his sleeping mum's hand. She's hooked up to oxygen, which unnerves him, but he knows she needs it. He moves his thumb over the back of her hand.

"We love you, Mum," he murmurs. "Get better…for Anna's sake, if not for mine."

He sniffs, and grabs the thin blanket he's draped over himself, wiping his eyes.

"Who's Charlie?" he whispers.

His mother sleeps on. She does not answer.

* * *

 ***borrowed from a generous kouw, from her fantastic story "Bundle"**

 ***KJV, Matthew 11:28-30**

 **A/N 2: So I started writing this chapter last winter. I honestly did not intend to take this long to finish it, or to keep you all waiting. This past year in real life has been an adjustment back to full time work for me. Then we did a lot of traveling over the summer, seeing family, etc.**

 **And as if that weren't enough, in September Mister was cast in another play at a local theater – and he convinced** _ **me**_ **to be a part of it, too. A little part – just a few lines! I am NOT an actor! But it's fun. :) So for the last couple months it's been rehearsals every night, and catching up with household stuff on the weekends. My writing time has gone down to just about zero. That being said, this coming weekend and the next will be the actual staging of the play. I can't make promises (at this point it seems cruel to make them), but please know I have a lot to say with this story. It takes time to say.**

 **The last couple chapters have been heavily Elsie, with tons of flashbacks. I need to get this story back to the present day, and Charlie's side of the story. But I haven't even gotten to Anna yet, and how Elsie became her mum. You can guess until the next bit comes out. Anna's part in this is really important…**

 **Mam's death might seem convenient. A friend's friend actually died that way, so I wasn't making it up out of thin air. :(**

 **Many, many, MANY thanks to those who've left reviews over the past year. Especially the guest reviewer(s) - ? I wish I could respond to you! Your encouragement has blown my mind. Thank you!**


	7. Loneliness Is Such A Sad Affair

**A/N: Back to Mr. Carson's perspective, and the present day…well, close enough.**

" _I never got it right_

 _Playing and re-playing old conversations_

 _Overthinking every word and I hate it_

' _Cause it's not me ('cause it's not me)_

 _And what's the point of hiding_

 _Everybody knows that we got unfinished business_

 _And I'd regret it if I didn't say this isn't what it could be_

 _(isn't what it could be)…_

 _You could break my heart in two_

 _But when it heals, it beats for you_

 _I know it's forward but it's true…_

 _Won't lie, I'd go back to you_

 _You know, my thoughts are running loose_

 _It's just a thing you make me do_

 _And I could fight, but what's the use_

 _I know I'd go back to you…_

"Back To You", Selena Gomez

* * *

 _ **Late December 2017 and January 2018**_

The holidays are a blur of lights, of people in rooms nibbling on food, and holding cups of cheer.

No one drinks very much.

Robert is devastated by Sybil's death. That much is clear to Charles. His younger friend has aged a decade in a span of weeks – his dark hair has mostly gone grey, and there are deep shadows beneath his eyes.

The few times Charles does see Cora, she appears to him like an heirloom Christmas ornament. Beautiful and fragile. Ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Mary and Edith take turns staying by her, one or the other never leaving her side.

"Cora will endure," Violet murmurs to Charles outside church on Christmas Eve. "She and Robert both. But their grief for Sybil will never leave them."

 _It will linger with them. And with us._

The Crawley family matriarch doesn't say it aloud, but her eyes do.

The lone bright spot during the holidays is baby Sybbie.

Tom brings his seven-month-old daughter to Robert and Cora's house Christmas Day afternoon. She's far more interested in the lights on the tree, and grabbing bows on her presents rather than the gifts themselves.

Her innocence and ignorance of everyone else's grief lightens hearts.

If only for a little while.

The calendar year turns. Were it not for his job, Charles thinks he would not have noticed the change.

He's glad of new business, the first burst of new accounts, making the necessary changes that his old clients want. Anything to keep his mind from the loss of Sybil.

But it is far more difficult to cope with his own grief than he thought it would be. He finds himself overwhelmed with sadness at the oddest times, crying in his car or at work. More than once he has to close his office door until he can control himself. Beryl says nothing, but he doubts she's fooled.

Random memories of Sybil invade his consciousness. She even appears in his dreams.

 _He sees her as a little girl again, playing with her sisters. She runs across the green lawn and launches herself at him._

" _Let's play, Carson!" She says. "Hide and seek!"_

 _She jumps from his arms and vanishes into the woods. He chases her, but he can't find her again._

" _Where are you?" He yells, pushing branches aside. "SYBIL!"_

" _Here!" A voice calls. Following the sound, he runs faster and faster._

 _There is a clearing off to his right. A figure stands there, and he skids to a stop._

" _Sybil?"_

 _She turns, all grown up, her head bald and her eyes sunken. "Carson," a tired smile makes her dimples appear. "Promise me."_

" _What?" He asks. He reaches for her hand, but he can't grasp it._

" _Find her."_

" _Who?" He whispers._

" _You know. Els."_

He wakes, his heart pounding and tears running down his face.

"I can't," he chokes to the darkness. He fists the comforter in one hand, feeling as though Sybil is right there, sitting on the end of the bed. "I want to, but how can I?"

It is so quiet he can hear the familiar ticking of his grandfather's watch on his bedside table.

* * *

 _ **February 2018**_

It is Valentine's Day. Atticus meets Rose for lunch, and he's late getting back. Charles cannot find it in himself to reprimand the young man when they do finally walk into the office hand in hand.

 _Going soft in my old age._

It's nice to see Rose – he doesn't know this Crawley cousin well, but the young woman has a definite spark to her.

He sneezes and grabs a tissue from the box on the table, by the copier. He's had colds before, but this one has lingered longer than most. For good measure, he makes himself another cup of tea.

Daisy comes in from the cold a few minutes later. Charles is surprised to see Gwen with her.

"I would've thought you'd be spending today with your boyfriend," he says to his former employee. "Romantic day, and all that."

"Seeing as Valentine's Day is on a Wednesday this year, it wasn't very practical," Gwen tells him, fumbling with her gloves. "We celebrated the day last weekend. I'd made plans today with my friend Anna, but something came up. I'm glad Daisy was free for lunch."

Daisy rolls her eyes, setting down her purse on her desk. "So I'm _third_ best to you. Thanks for reminding me of how little I matter." She grins at her friend.

"Rubbish! You know I love you too," Gwen sticks out her tongue playfully at Daisy and turns back to Charles. "We've been meaning to have a catch up anyway – and after last weekend, I _really_ needed to." She yanks her glove off and holds up her hand. A ring glimmers on her finger. "John proposed. We're engaged!"

"Congratulations!" Charles smiles, raising his eyebrows. "That's wonderful news."

Mrs. Patmore screams in delight from her desk. She and Daisy sandwich Gwen in between them, the three of them laughing. Rose calls congratulations across the room.

"Your John has good taste," Mrs. Patmore admires Gwen's ring and wipes away a tear. "Of course we already knew _that_. Do you have a date set?"

"Not yet," Gwen says, eyes bright. "We're thinking about maybe December, depending on our schedules and what we can find for the reception."

"That's not long for an engagement," Rose says, looking over her shoulder at Atticus. "But when you know you've found the right person, you don't want to wait."

"Is that a hint for me to get a move on?" Atticus turns from hanging up his coat near the front door. Rose kisses him.

"Maybe just a _little_ hint, darling." She waves at them all before she leaves.

"He'll propose by Friday," Gwen tells Daisy under her breath, and the two giggle.

Charles has always thought Gwen is a happy person, but now the flame-haired woman glows in a way he's never noticed before.

 _Young love,_ he thinks.

His nose itches, and he grabs another tissue just in time for another colossal sneeze. The women look over at him.

"God bless you!" Daisy says automatically.

"Thank you," he mutters, wiping his raw nose.

A little line appears between Gwen's eyes. "Are you all right, Mr. Carson?" she asks. "I don't mean to pry, but Daisy said you've had that cold for days."

It feels longer than that. "It's just a cold, not the flu," he tells Gwen. "It's a nuisance…don't worry, I'm keeping myself hydrated – actually, Mrs. Patmore and Mary are. Tea and soup and the like. And plenty of water." He tosses the tissue into a nearby bin. "Congratulations again on your engagement, Els. Best of luck with the wedding planning."

Gwen's frown deepens. "Thank you…" her voice trails off.

"Mrs. Patmore, that conference call is at half two, not two o'clock. They changed the time." Charles waves at Gwen, then goes into his office.

Not ninety seconds later, Beryl comes in.

"Really, I'm _fine_ ," he smiles at her worried expression. "It's just this bloody cold. Look, I've got my tea right here." His cup steams beside his open laptop.

She shuts his office door behind her and leans against it. Her eyes turn toward the grey outdoors. "It's not that. You did it again just now."

"Did what?" He's perplexed. "Sneeze?"

She fixes him with a stare that would crumple mere mortals, but for once he seriously does not have any idea what she is talking about.

"You called Gwen another name. Els," Beryl frowns. "You called Daisy that on Monday. I heard you then, too. And Daisy also told me you called our university student intern Emily by that name back in January. Twice."

 _Sybil told me to find her in my dream…_

At the sound of the familiar name, Charles's heart flutters in his chest. It's like the frozen ice on the pond beneath the midday sun. Weak.

He shies away from the sensation. He wants to tell Beryl that she and Daisy heard wrong, that Emily misunderstood him. But his tongue is as frozen as the water droplets on the window.

Beryl steps closer to his desk. "I know you're still…grieving for Sybil. We all are. But if I'm honest, Mr. Carson-"

"You always are." He smooths his hand on his desk, willing it not to tremble.

"You seem lost. More than usual." She crosses her arms. "Who's Els?"

"No one." The words come easily. The woman he's spent forty years trying to forget is not even a memory to him; she's more like a ghost, a cypher, something he might've grasped once, but lost before he knew what he had.

"You and I both know _you_ know she's not 'no one'. She's someone, that's certain." Beryl won't give up easily. "Whoever she is, she left her mark on you."

 _She did._

He doesn't remember the waitress Els. Not what she looked like. Only glimpses linger in his memory.

Red hair, the way his name curled off her tongue. Dark eyes meeting his across the bar.

Her hand in his as they ran across the street to the motel. Her legs clinched around his torso, the feel of her lips on his shoulder. Waking up with her in his arms.

Seeing her through the bus window, standing alone in Rusty's parking lot.

 _I said I'd come back. I never did._

Charles blinks and looks up at Beryl. "I don't want to talk about it." Bending over, he fumbles in his desk drawer for a file. A piece of paper that looks important. Anything.

He hopes she'll take the hint.

Being Beryl, she ignores it completely. She folds his laptop closed. "You have to talk sometime. 'Specially when something's eating at you like this-"

"-the only thing eating at me is you," he growls. Her badgering him is forcing him to confront things he's buried, failures he's tried to forget.

Promises he's broken.

It is much harder to ignore his flesh and blood colleague than Sybil's ghost.

"You're a hopeless liar," Beryl snaps back. "I'm your friend, and I care about you. What _is_ going on with you? Who is Els?"

He clenches his fists on the glass-top desk. His heart feels as though it is being squeezed – why can't she leave it?

 _Why does it matter?_

 _I hardly knew anything about Els. I had to find out her last name from someone else._

 _Whose fault was that?_

"She-she's someone I met a long time ago. Once," he grunts out, not looking up. "I don't know why I called Gwen by her name, I haven't even thought of her in years…"

 _Liar._

"What happened to her?" Beryl asks after a long silence. Charles can hear the copier on the other side of the wall.

"I don't know."

"Why not find out?"

He stares at his keyboard.

"Please leave me alone, Mrs. Patmore."

Looking up, he glares at his friend. She opens her mouth likes she's about to chew him out. But then she simply holds his gaze for a heartbeat, shakes her head, and walks out, muttering under her breath about men's stubbornness.

* * *

He nearly calls a client Els later that afternoon, but catches himself before making the error again.

On the way home, his XM radio plays a continuous stream of the Carpenters' old songs. He wants to turn it off, but he doesn't trust himself while driving. And technology has never been his forte.

Karen Carpenter's voice tortures him.

" _There was a man, a lonely man_

 _Who lost his love, through his indifference_

 _A heart that cared, that went unshared_

 _Until it died within his silence_

 _And solitaire's the only game in town_

 _And every road that takes him, takes him down_

 _And by himself, it's easy to pretend_

 _He'll never love again_

 _And keeping to himself he plays the game_

 _Without her love it always ends the same_

 _While life goes on around him everywhere_

 _He's playing solitaire…"*_

Charles curses himself for telling Sybil his musical tastes. She was the one who set up the satellite radio in his car.

Robert had sent home a bottle of merlot with him after New Year's. It had barely been opened, and Charles hasn't touched it since.

That night he drains it.

It's been years since he drank so much, even more than after Sybil's funeral.

And yet it isn't enough to stop the memories of Els from overwhelming him.

The two of them talking after midnight at the bar over glasses of water. Dancing in the semi-darkness, Elvis warbling "Can't Help Falling in Love" in the background. Her teasing him.

 _Holding her hand made me feel steady._

Kissing passionately in the smoky corridor at Rusty's. Her breathing _oh my god_ as he ravished her soft neck.

The way she covered her breasts in his hotel room. The look in her eyes when he stood naked in front of her.

 _As though_ _ **I**_ _was beautiful._

Pleasuring her, hearing her sighs. Her strong yet gentle hands touching him, giving him pleasure back.

Making love in the bed, no space between them.

Making her tea in the morning, and enjoying the pleasant silence between them.

Her joining him in the tiny shower. The slippery soap. Them tumbling to the floor onto the shag carpet. Him losing control, pounding into her.

 _God, I never should have left her._

 _She has never left me._

 _I loved her._

With a roar, he hurls the empty wine bottle into the fireplace. The bottle shatters in a million pieces.

The effort makes Charles stumble, and he falls onto the floor, his back against his recliner.

 _Shadows and memories, and Karen Carpenter's voice…that's all I've got._

The sound of his own sobbing is something he's never heard before. Not even after his father died.

 _Why did I leave? Why didn't I stay?_

 _It isn't like she loved me..._

 _I didn't give her a chance to_ _know_ _me, much less feel anything more._

 _I'll never know what she thought of me._

* * *

Using his lingering cold as an excuse, he takes the next day off.

His hangover is much worse than any illness. His belly finally stops heaving close to nine o'clock. A shower, ginger ale, and dry toast help him feel a bit more normal.

It takes two tries with the vacuum and a broom to clean up all the glass shards. A few tiny ones still sparkle in the corner, but he leaves them as a reminder.

His promise to Sybil to find Els, as well as Beryl's questions, nag at him. Even as he reluctantly searches for every variation of Els that he can think of – paired with the name Mackenzie - and "Rusty's" on several search engines, he doubts he'll find anything about the waitress.

And he doesn't.

The most recent scrap of news is that the building that used to hold Rusty's was bought in June 2017, and is undergoing significant renovation. According to the news article, the old bar is scheduled to be re-opened as a farm-to-table restaurant in the spring.

In the same article he learns that _The Hound_ , also long since closed, is also undergoing renovation. There are no further details, but he doesn't bother searching for them. After all, _he_ has a history with the theater, not Els.

 _Why am I bothering with this, anyway? I knew it would be impossible to find her._

As feeble as his searching is, it quells the persistent voices in his mind.

A little.

Charles is surprised that Beryl says nothing else to him when he returns to work. He keeps wondering when she'll inevitably pester him; he's never known her to drop the scent when she's onto something.

The Monday after Valentines' Day, his office phone rings. It's Mary's mobile number.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he says, picking it up. "I thought you were buried in work."

" _I am, but I can always spare time for you."_

Though he's used to her flattery, he still smiles. "We missed you at brunch yesterday. You and Matthew."

" _Us too, but as you say, both of us are buried at the moment. We'll be there next Sunday, never fear. Listen, are you free for lunch tomorrow?"_

"Uh yes," he says, quickly checking his Outlook calendar. "I assume you want to meet?"

He and Mary had met at least once a week for lunch since she had graduated from university. The only real break in the pattern had been in the last year, after Sybil had fallen ill.

" _Yes. It's been ages…I thought we should start up the tradition again. New year and all."_

"It's February," he reminds her.

" _I'm aware of that."_ Her dry tone reminds him of Violet, and it makes him smile wider. _"But better late than never._ "

* * *

Five minutes before noon the next day, Charles leaves his office. "Mrs. Patmore, Mary and I are going to lunch," he says. "I should be back in an hour."

"She's here," Beryl doesn't look up from her screen. "She got here a few minutes ago."

 _That's odd. She usually comes back to my office._

Mary sits on the couch in the receiving area by Daisy's desk, intent on her mobile.

"Is something wrong?" he asks. "It's not like you to be obsessed with the latest technology. Though far too many of your generation are."

Mary clicks it off and drops it into her purse, getting up and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hello to you, too. It's nothing." She smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Are you sure? No one's ill, are they?" He persists, picking up her scarf from the floor and handing it to her. "The flu's been terrible…is Matthew all right?" His heart suddenly clenches. "The baby? Sybbie doesn't have the flu, does she-"

"She's fine. And Matthew and I had colds last week, just like you. We're both over it now. Everyone is fine, Carson." Mary squeezes his arm. "Everyone in _our_ family, that is. Anna's mother went down with a cold about ten days ago. They thought it was the flu, but apparently it is pneumonia. She's been in hospital since Thursday night."

"Oh dear." Charles holds the door open for Mary as they venture out into the cold. There's a chilly wind, making him shiver. He squints into the February sun. "Is she going to be all right?"

Mary nods. "Anna said she will, but she's going to remain at the hospital for a while. Anna texted me earlier this morning, asking if I'd pick up a few things for her at her apartment after lunch. She and Thomas are taking turns sleeping at the hospital, staying with their mum. Thomas, Anna's brother," she says at Charles's confused expression. "Not our Tom."

He remembers hearing something about Anna's brother. _He's the cricketer…Matthew tried to recruit him for our team._ "I'm sure the hospital is the last place they want to be, after their father died last year."

 _Not long after Sybil._

"Stepfather," Mary corrects him. "Yes, Anna said it brings back memories of when Joe was there." She tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. "Anna loved him, but she's _very_ close with her mum. I can't begrudge her worrying so much. I just wish she could have an easier time for a while."

They continue down the sidewalk in silence for a minute. Charles is glad he thought to put his collar up and that his scarf is secure around his neck. The bright sun is deceptive – the wind's brutal.

"Mrs. Hughes has never liked me," Mary says. "Anna's mum…I think she's always thought I was just some rich, spoiled brat. I think she's surprised Anna and I have stayed friends."

"Then she's a fool. Who wouldn't like you?" Charles sticks his gloved hands in his coat pockets, grateful for their warmth.

Knowing Mary all her life, he is aware that others see her as prickly. And he's heard Edith call Mary a brat more than once.

 _A bitch, too._

The times he has interacted with Anna, however, he's always been struck by her kindness and her willingness to see the good in everyone. She has been a good friend for his goddaughter, and Mary for her. That much is clear.

A genuine smile breaks across Mary's face. "Not everyone is like you, Carson. You never fail to boost my confidence."

"I try."

The restaurant is busy when they arrive. "Perhaps we should find a table first," Charles says, scanning the crowded room. "There's one with two seats by the window."

"Let's sit over there," Mary gestures in the other direction but there's no need for it. To Charles's utter shock, Edith waves from a corner table. Tom Branson sits next to her.

 _What are THEY doing here?_

Charles turns to Mary. She gives him a tight-lipped smile and steers him to the back.

"Hello, Carson. Perfect timing - the food should be coming any minute now. I hope you don't mind, but we ordered for you," Edith stands up and gives him a quick hug. The look she gives Mary makes things clear to Charles.

 _She knew they'd be here._

"I'm…surprised to see you here," he says slowly to Edith. He nods at Sybil's husband. "And you, Mr. Branson." Tom stands up to shake his hand, then Charles and Mary take off their coats. Then they all awkwardly sit down. "None of _you_ seem surprised, though."

"Well, I did want to meet you for lunch," Mary begins. "It just happened that both Tom and Edith talked to me Sunday evening. We were all free to have lunch today."

"My mother's looking after Sybbie for me this afternoon," says Tom. "I'll have to get used to it sooner rather than later."

"Why? The school's not saying you have to go back _now_ , are they?" Charles asks, appalled.

"No, no," Tom assures him. "The staff's been wonderful, and the headmistress said I don't have to come back until Easter at the soonest. Only if _I_ want to come back then. Otherwise, the autumn."

Charles lets out a breath. "Very good of them. What about you, Edith? It's the end of the month."

"Michael – my editor," Edith stammers, "-he's very laid back if the staff have plans other than eating at the office."

"You're working under a deadline right now," Charles says, raising his eyebrows.

"You're more important than a deadline," she says, giving him a tentative smile.

Charles's eyes dart between the three of them. "I see. Are we starting a new lunch tradition, then?"

He feels a sense of apprehension which only increases when none of them answer him.

 _Don't be ridiculous. It's Mary and Edith, and Mr. Branson!_

A thought occurs to him.

"Is this about Sybil?" He asks.

"No," Mary and Edith say together.

"Yes." Tom says at the same time. He glances back at the sisters when they look at him. "Well, partly."

"Sort of," Edith hesitates. "But not really."

"I'm confused." Charles says. He doesn't ask another question, as the server arrives with their food. When the girl is gone, they tuck in, but the silence is strained. Charles eats most of his squash soup before his curiosity gets the better of him.

"Now what _is_ this all about?"

Tom sets down the crust of his sandwich. "I should start…I think," he looks in Mary's direction, and she nods, sipping her tea. Tom swallows nervously. "Mr. Carson…first of all, I want you to know that we're not saying any of this lightly. We talked about it, all three of us, and we could only see one way forward."

"Go on, then." Charles finishes his soup and sits back, facing the young widower. His heart beats faster in his chest.

Tom clears his throat. "I understand that Mrs. Patmore asked you recently about someone in your past. Someone named Els."

 _They're not here to talk about Sybil._

Air leaves Charles's chest like he's been punched. If Tom had leaned across the table and kissed him it would have been less of a shock.

It feels like an ambush.

To know that Beryl Patmore has spilled his secret is not what surprises Charles – it's the messenger. He thought his friend would've gone to Robert first. Or Violet.

Not Mary and Edith.

And not Mr. _Branson._

It feels like a betrayal of his deepest self, though he's aware that Beryl knows nothing of his background with the waitress. She only knows the name he knew.

 _Or does she know something else?_

 _What_ _else_ _does she know?_

 _Does she know I was homeless years ago?_

All of his thoughts collide like a train wreck in his mind, making his tongue heavy. "Mrs. Patmore…had no right to say anything to you," he says stiffly, trying not to let his temper get the better of him. "I know she's worried about me, but still, Els is someone from _years_ ago, someone I'd forgotten-"

He forces himself past the lie, hating himself for it almost as much for the pity on Tom's face. "-and this is none of your concern. _None_ of yours," he glares at Edith, who has the grace to look down, then at Mary.

His goddaughter meets his eyes. Like Tom, she has nothing in her expression but pity.

He hates it.

 _They're CHILDREN – yes, they're grown, but they're young. They know nothing of MY life. This is_ _ **none of their business**_ _._

Part of him wonders why he's so angry.

 _I've always been private. Always._

"Mrs. Patmore didn't say anything to me. Not directly," Tom says, leaning forward. "Apparently she and Daisy heard you mention Els's name a few times."

"Daisy told me what you said. She's worried about you, and so is Mrs. Patmore-" Edith starts, but Charles cuts her off, one hand up.

"Wait a moment. _Daisy_ told you? That's not what you said," Charles snaps at Tom.

He doesn't flinch. "Daisy told Edith, and she confirmed it with Mrs. Patmore."

None of it makes sense to Charles. "But then who told you? Edith? And why would Daisy tell her anything?"

Daisy was one of Sybil's friends and served as a pallbearer, he remembers. But as far as he knows the young woman in his office isn't friends with any of the other Crawleys.

"You remember on Sunday at brunch I said I was working on a memorial to Sybil at the webzine?" Edith asks. Charles nods. "I've been talking to a lot of her friends, including met last Thursday to chat. We ended up talking about more than just Sybil. You came up, and I got curious. So I rang Mrs. Patmore-"

"And after hearing what your friend had to say, Edith told me about her conversation with Mrs. Patmore on Saturday," Tom breaks in.

"I suppose you had to ring Mary then and tell her, too," Charles says, his temper mounting.

 _All of them talking behind my back like I'm nothing more than fodder for gossip. Matthew probably knows by now, too. And Robert and Cora and Violet and Isobel…_

"Tom rang me Sunday, yes," Mary says. She sounds more than a touch annoyed. "You should know, Carson, this was all new to me. I was completely in the dark before then. About all of it."

Charles wonders for a fleeting second if she's annoyed with him. That he never told _her_ about Els.

 _Mary is my goddaughter. But she does not have a right to know everything._

 _The only person I ever_ _deliberately_ _told was Sybil. And that was only because she was dying. I thought my secret would stay with her._

 _Sybil…_

He turns, facing Tom.

"You'd heard about Els before Edith told you."

The young man pushes aside his sandwich plate and nods. "Sybil told me about her. In October."

 _October!?_

"Carson, I can't understand why you told Sybil and not me." Mary says. There is no doubt in Charles's mind now that she is hurt. "I always thought you and I were close-"

"Not everything is about you," Edith mutters, glancing sideways at her older sister.

"I am _not_ saying that-I just don't understand why Carson would hide something so important-"

"Mary, I love you, but I have a right to keep my life private," Charles says. He clenches his fist around his soup spoon. "I only told Sybil because she asked about my past. I wasn't going to deny her."

 _Especially then._

 _I thought she'd keep my secret._

He pinches his nose between his fingers. He feels like Sybil betrayed him, and he feels guilty about being angry with her. A lump forms in his throat. "I wonder why she told you," he grunts in Tom's direction. "It was my understanding she would keep our conversation between the two of us."

The silence from the others lingers so long Charles looks up. Edith's eyes are red-rimmed. Mary dabs at hers. Tom clears his throat, and wipes his face with his napkin.

"Sybil loved you," Tom murmurs. "She said she couldn't keep silent knowing you had a memory that still affected you so many years later."

Hot tears form in Charles's eyes, and he hastily turns away. Tom continues while Charles collects himself.

"She didn't want you to carry it alone after she was gone…that's what she told me. So she told me the story. About _The Hound_ , your…business partner, Els…all of it."

"'The Hound'?" Edith asks, looking from Tom to Charles. "Was that the bar where you met Els?" She pulls out her phone.

"What are you doing? Searching for it? I doubt it's there anymore," Charles says, though he knows what Edith will find. He glances at Tom. The two men study each other, and Charles realizes something else. He mulls over the words Tom used.

' _Business partner'?_

 _He hasn't told the girls_ _everything_ _Sybil told him._

 _About me being on stage…maybe not even about Alice._

"I'm making notes for now," Edith says, typing with her thumbs.

"Why? You aren't planning to write about it for the webzine, are you?" Mary huffs out a sigh. "You should ask Carson for permission first."

"I am _not_ going to write about it," Edith says crisply, not looking up. "But if we're to help Carson, we need to collect the details, everything he knows."

Once again Charles feels lost. "What do you mean by 'help'?"

"You promised Sybil that you'd try to find the waitress," Mary says. She still sounds upset, but her expression is sincere. "We want to help you find her."

If it was anyone but Mary saying it, Charles would feel inclined to protest, then to categorically decline their help.

 _Them knowing about Els is one thing._

He doesn't feel prepared to tell them anything more.

"If you want our help," Tom breaks in. "It's up to you, of course."

Charles feels boxed into a corner. By his colleagues sharing his slips of the tongue, by Mary and Edith and Tom.

But most of all by the person who isn't there.

" _Find her for your own sake, and not for mine,"_ Sybil's voice whispers.

There are still glass shards in the corner of his living room.

 _I loved Els. Never mind I never got to know her, or that we were only intimate for one night._

 _A part of me won't ever rest until I know what happened to her. I have to try, and they're offering help._

"All right," he says, looking at Tom. "I'll tell you what I remember."

 _Not the most personal details, but enough to go on._

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." Tom's smile is almost like the one he used to wear. "We'll help you all we can."

"On one condition," Charles says, meeting Mary and Edith's gazes. "That _no one_ else is told about this. Like I said, I like to keep my life private, and this is _very_ private. I never thought I would talk about that time in my life ever again," he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. "I suppose the most difficult task now is to keep your grandmother from telling everyone she knows-"

"Granny won't say a word," Edith says with more conviction than Charles is used to hearing from her. "Because she doesn't know."

"I didn't tell her anything, and neither of you have, have you?" Tom's voice is light, and his question is directed at both women, but he's only looking at Mary.

"I haven't told anyone, since you practically threatened murder if I did," Mary sniffs. "That includes Matthew, so unless Isobel is clairvoyant, she's in the dark too." She grins. "Along with Granny."

"They'd _hate_ that," Tom nods.

"Wait. Violet doesn't know about this? Her or Isobel? You didn't tell them?" Charles asks them. It seems too good to be true.

 _For once._

"Not a word," Tom reassures him. "And Robert and Cora don't know anything about it either. Sybil told me Robert knows a little about what you used to do before you worked for your father, but not about Els."

 _ROBERT has never told anyone I was on stage. Not even Cora._

 _And I thought he couldn't keep a secret._

"Thank you for not telling them," Charles says. "Robert and Cora. It was a memory I never shared with them…it didn't seem worth it."

"Maybe if we find out what happened to her, then you can tell them."

Charles gives Mary a small smile. "Maybe. _If_ we find her."

"May I tell Matthew what we're doing?" she asks, her expression serious. "He won't tell anyone. You know he's used to keeping the attorney-client privilege sacred."

For her, Charles almost always makes an exception.

"All right. But _only_ Matthew. No one else, not even Mr. Gregson," he tells Edith. She blushes, a silent confirmation of something he's wondered for a while.

"I'll make discrete inquiries without telling him," she says. "I promise. If he does ask, I'll tell him I'm helping a friend." She grins. "Which I am."

"Sybbie can be discrete too," Tom says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "She speaks a language no one knows. I've tried to understand her, but so far, I don't have any luck."

"It's not for lack of trying," Edith says, a laugh bubbling out.

Tom shows several pictures of the baby to Charles, then they get down to business. Charles finds he remembers more than he thought. He tells the three about Miranda, and how she wrote back to him.

"That could be a break-through," Edith types notes on her phone. "If we can find her, maybe we can find Els."

"But Carson said she didn't know where her friend had gone. That she'd left without giving Miranda another address. Isn't that right?" Mary frowns.

"Yes. I wish I could show you the letter," Charles says. "I lost it years ago…I wish I'd kept it, maybe I'm not remembering everything."

 _Burned my bridges without thinking I'd need a way to cross them again._

"Never mind," Mary shakes her head. "Miranda might be on Facebook. If she is, then we can look through her contacts-"

"Would she be on there, though?" Charles asks, skeptical. "She'd be younger than me, but not by much. I thought social media and all that was for the younger generations."

"A lot of people of all ages are on Facebook," Tom says. "My mother is. Most of her friends are. It's a way for them to keep in contact with each other and post a thousand pictures of their grandchildren."

"I see."

Sharing what he knows, Charles feels – not good, but better. Like he's been carrying a heavy weight and has dropped half of it.

 _Sybil was wiser than I knew._

He's touched by the younger three's enthusiasm. Tom is more animated than Charles has seen since long before Sybil's death. He can't remember Mary and Edith ever being united in a shared goal, either, instead of fighting against one another.

"-look for a name that's close to Els," Tom is saying to Edith, talking over her shoulder as she scrolls on her phone. "It's probably short for Elizabeth-"

"It doesn't have to be Elizabeth," Mary says, cutting him off. "It might be Ella or Beth or something different entirely. Elsie sounds like Els too."

"Isn't that Mrs. Hughes's name?" Edith asks.

Tom sits up. "Yes. I remember when she helped at the Medieval Fair at the school last autumn, Mrs. Molesley called her that."

"Isn't she in hospital right now? With the flu?" Edith shakes her head. "Laura's got it. She's been out of the office since Friday."

"Pneumonia," Mary says. "Yes, she's in hospital. Tom, did you know-"

"I did. I might not be teaching at the moment, but I still get all their emails and texts. Anyway, Anna texted me last night." Tom rests his chin on the top of his chair, deep in thought. "Mrs. Hughes does run Lucille's…"

"Oh come on, let's not get sidetracked," Mary rolls her eyes. "We're looking for someone named Els who was a waitress forty years ago. Just because she worked at a bar _then_ doesn't mean she did that for the rest of her life. According to Carson, she was a university student too," she glares at Edith and Tom, who are having a wordless conversation. The two ignore her, talking at the same time.

"You don't think-"

"Maybe-"

"I know what you're both thinking, and you're wrong," Mary interrupts. "Besides, it's impossible."

"How do you know?" Tom asks her.

"What's impossible?" Charles asks.

Mary heaves a frustrated sigh. "They think _Mrs. Hughes_ is the waitress Els. The long-lost woman you're looking for."

"I don't know for sure, but her name _is_ Elsie and she _does_ own a catering company," Edith says. "Let's at least try out the hypothesis before saying no."

"We're talking about _Anna's_ mother?" Charles squints at them, wondering if they're being serious. They all turn to face him at the end of the table. "I can tell you that Mary's right. It is impossible that _she's_ Els. I'd know it if she was. I've known Anna for years."

To tell the truth, he can't remember the last time he saw Mrs. Hughes, much less the first time he met her. But he must have met her at some point.

Whenever he did, the woman obviously didn't make much of an impression on him. He can't even remember what she looks like.

 _Probably like Anna._

Mary's friend doesn't resemble his memory of Els at all. That convinces him more than anything.

"It's also impossible that they're the same person, because the summer Carson met Els, Mrs. Hughes had Thomas," Mary jabs her finger on the table for emphasis. "She couldn't be working in a bar while having a newborn at home at the same time."

"Certainly not," Charles says. "Rusty's was open late every night, till three at least."

Tom glances at him. "If you're sure-"

"He's never been so sure," Mary says, exasperated. "This is ridiculous. Anna's talked about her mother in front of Carson, and I've talked about Carson in front of her for years! Surely if she was Els, she would've said _something_. To Anna, if not to me. Besides, she's not Carson's type at all."

Charles slides his hand across the table, and squeezes Mary's hand. "She doesn't like you. That seals it for me."

"Well, it was worth asking," Edith sighs, dropping her phone into her purse. "One down…"

"…a million women to go," Tom smiles at Charles. "Who knows, Mr. Carson? Even if we don't find Els, maybe you'll meet the woman of your dreams."

"I'm not asking for a miracle," Charles says drily as they all get up.

Truth be told, he's nervous about them finding anything. The thought of Els being dead hurts, but at least that would bring him closure. Her being happily married or her being alone - he can't imagine which would be worse.

 _What if she's nothing like I remember?_

 _I've put my heart out there_ , he thinks as he goes back outside, into the cold. _I hope it doesn't get shattered. Again._

 _If it is, it won't be my doing._

* * *

 **A/N:**

 ***"Solitaire", by the Carpenters. It's a heart-wrenching song, made all the more so by Karen Carpenter. I was actually delighted to add another Carpenters song to the list of music for this fic. It's fitting.**

 **Selena Gomez and her song "Back To You" are a large part of why I came back to this story…it felt like it was constantly on my radio this spring…this summer…and this autumn. It will be quoted again. Soon.** **"I know it's forward, but it's true" is one of the most Chelsie phrases I've ever heard in a modern song.**

 **I don't know if I'll ever actually explain it outright, so I'll just tell you all – Anna, Tom, and Mr. Molesley are all teachers at the same school. That's not a spoiler. Or IS it? Lol.**

 **Also, for those of you who don't know, I am not a Mary fan. I don't hate her unconditionally (her fondness for both Carson and Anna gave her points in my book), but I did throw her under the bus in this chapter. Though neither she, nor Carson, knows it. She's wrong about a couple of things here. One of them being her opinion on what Carson's "type" of woman is. Oh Mary, how wrong you are. About so many things.**

 **For the record: Charles Carson has never "met" Anna's mother. He only thinks he has. He's not, er, technically wrong. While the girls have known each other for a long time, and have spent time around Charles and Elsie (separately), ne'er the two older ones have met. There's an "almost" meeting in a flashback that I'm dying to get to.**

 **The updates to this fic have been sporadic, and they'll probably continue to be for a while. But I do want to get to the next chapter before the end of the month (Christmas break! Time off! Yay!), so there's hope. The next chapter will be back to Elsie's perspective.**

 **If you have time, please leave a review. I do appreciate them, and cherish each one, no matter how horrible I am at replying to them. Thank you!**


	8. Thomas

_**Late February, 2018**_

Cold drops, more like rain than snow, tap against the hospital room window. The late morning sky is bleak.

Sucking on her straw, Elsie finds herself staring at the bottom of her empty cup.

 _No more juice._

She knows it's a good thing. Her appetite is back, now that the drugs are working and her pneumonia is at bay.

"All finished with lunch?" the nurse on call comes in. "Good." He checks Elsie's vitals and straightens her crooked blanket.

"Could I have more water, please?" Elsie asks.

"Of course." After the smiling bearded man with the bald patch leaves for the second time, Elsie leans back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. She's tired of watching TV. Glancing at the bedside table, she sees the book Phyllis has lent her. She knows that once she's out of the hospital, she won't have much time for reading, but she can't muster up any enthusiasm for it.

She wants to go home. Though the farm doesn't feel like home anymore.

Not that she ever really felt at home there.

 _I don't want to be HERE anymore._

Restless, she reaches for her phone to check her email. Her heart leaps at the sight of a new message. Work has always been a good distraction for her.

Her heart sinks right away at the short email – her able assistant is only summarizing plans for upcoming events, and ends with advice that Elsie is heartily sick of hearing.

 _Between us, Alfred and I are keeping the ship steady. All of us miss you, as do our vendors, but don't come back before you're_ _fully_ _recovered. We want our fearless leader to be at one hundred percent!_

 _Take care!_

 _L_

Huffing out a sigh, Elsie puts her phone back, careful not to knock over the pretty arrangement of flowers her staff had sent her. Another vase from her children sits on the opposite side of the bed.

 _I should be happy Lavinia has things well in hand._ _After all, I trained her._

But she has never liked feeling left out.

Or bored.

The mix of rain and snow hitting the window lulls her to sleep. She wakes again when the nurse enters again with her lunch.

Thomas's arrival shortly before three lifts her spirits more than anything.

"Hello," he grins, bending over to kiss her cheek and give her a hug. "You're looking much better today!"

"You're kind. But I need a shower," she says ruefully, touching her lank hair.

"How are you feeling?" He pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down.

"Well, I'm bored, so I must be feeling better. Dr. Shah said this morning that by she might consider letting me go home by the end of the week. _Might_."

"Have you eaten today? How much?"

"Yes, I've eaten," she says, knowing she sounds annoyed. She forces a smile. "Two _full_ meals, if you must know. I know you're only asking because you care, but you and Edward and Anna make me feel like a child."

"Mum, we only want you to feel _completely_ well," he raises an eyebrow. "No relapses…Dr. Shah told Anna that you're one of the most stubborn patients she's ever had."

"And of course, the doctor knows best." Elsie shakes her head. Sarcasm isn't something she often indulges in, but her boredom makes her petulant and rather rebellious. She feels a twinge of guilt talking about Dr. Shah – she likes her doctor, and has always had excellent care. "Tell me about you. How's work? How's Edward?"

Thomas fills her in on the project he's currently working on, an ad design for a non-profit helping homeless teens, before moving on to news about his husband.

"Edward's working late tonight. Someone's fiftieth birthday party, so the restaurant's hosting the event."

Elsie's son-in-law is a gifted chef who works at _Chouteau_ , one of the trendiest restaurants in the city. Had he not been working there since his teens, Elsie would have hired him for Lucille's. In retrospect, she's often wished she had had the chance. But he's made a name for himself, and the owners and staff at the famed restaurant all made accommodation for him, after he was wounded serving for the army and had lost most of his sight.

"Alfred rang Edward on Tuesday," Thomas says, restlessly tapping his foot on the floor to an unheard beat. "Asking for a bit of advice, from one chef to another. It didn't have anything to do with the business side of things-"

"Did Edward tell you to tell me that?" She asks, suspicious.

" _No_ , Mum." Thomas rolls his eyes. "He said, and I quote, 'It was a foodie thing.' Something about spices…"

"I hope Alfred didn't bother him too much," Elsie murmurs. Alfred has been her head chef for three years. He was top of his class in culinary school, and she's been very pleased with him.

 _He does doubt himself sometimes. He shouldn't._

"You know Edward, he doesn't mind answering questions at all. He loves mentoring other chefs. He's really looking forward to visiting the School for the Blind again next month, helping the kids." Thomas fiddles with his sleeve cuffs on his button-down blue shirt. "Speaking of kids, I saw Ethel with her son at Aldi's last night," he rushes out.

"Oh?" Elsie frowns. It isn't like Thomas to change the subject so abruptly. "How are they?"

"They seem well. I didn't talk to Ethel very long. We were just in line next to each other for a few minutes. She sends her best wishes to you." He clasps both hands around his right knee, his wedding ring reflecting off the lamplight. "Do you remember her son's name?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I?" Her eyebrows crinkle. "Little Charlie."

"Yes. Charlie." Thomas stares at her.

She remembers all too well Thomas's teenage years, when her questions often received only a word or two in response – if she got any response at all. Her son is now a man, and especially since his marriage he's shed his exasperating tendency to be cryptic.

Until now.

She stares right back at him, uncomprehending. "What _is_ it?" Her voice is sharp. "If you have something to say, get on with it."

"Do you remember anything about the night we – Anna, John Bates, and I - brought you here?" He's still staring at her.

Heaving a sigh, Elsie shifts the pillow behind her back. "Like I told Anna, no, I don't. Nothing clear. Just a little of the ride in the car, seeing the lights of the hospital. The first thing I _really_ remember is waking up and finding myself on oxygen. But you already knew that."

He scratches the back of his neck. "I did. I just thought maybe you would've remembered…other things. Things you said."

"What did I _say_?" She crosses her arms, glaring. Anna had hinted at something similar the day before. Now she's really wondering what happened.

"You called Mr. Bates another name at the house," Thomas says. "And in the car you called me by the same name."

"Which was…"

"Charlie." His eyes bore into hers. "I couldn't think of anyone you know by that name other than Ethel's son. Is that who you meant?"

 _Charlie?_

 _I called Thomas 'Charlie'? AND Mr. Bates?_

 _Charlie…_

There is only one Charlie she can think of that she would have thought of semi-consciously, and it is not Charlie Parks. Her heart freezes, and her tongue feels as though it's weighed down.

Cold seeps through her. She folds the top blanket around her hands.

"Mum?" Thomas tilts his head. She takes in his silhouette, his neatly combed black hair, his straight nose. The blurry image of a man she hasn't seen in forty years fights its way through the fog of her memory.

 _Broad shoulders. Curly black hair. That Grecian statue nose._

 _His deep voice that went right through me…_

She can picture Joe's face with much more clarity.

 _Thick arms. Wavy hair that he never bothered with…his da's short nose that Peter inherited._

Joe Burns is dead and buried, but she shivers.

 _He was right about Thomas. I should have told him long ago._

"Mum?" Thomas leans forward and puts his hands over hers. Elsie flinches and pulls her hands away.

"No, I wasn't thinking about wee Charlie," she whispers, hearing the words coming out of her mouth. She swallows and folds her hands together. Both to steady herself and to buy a few moments. To figure out what to say.

No.

Not what to say to her son, but _how_ to say it.

 _He's never heard the truth before. The whole truth._

The moment she's dreaded for decades is here. She's had other opportunities to tell the truth, but she refuses to put it off anymore.

 _I can't._

 _It's past time._

"Thomas-" She meets his eyes. He's still leaning forward, his expression bewildered. The shadow of the angry teenager, the confused lad he was, is still visible. Her heart aches.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?" He asks.

She closes her eyes. Mam's disappointment, her mother scolding her, a lit cigarette in her hand, flits behind Elsie's eyelids.

 _Mam forgave me later._

 _Thomas won't._

 _You won't know until you tell him._

Opening her eyes, she squeezes her folded hands together, willing herself to look at him and say it. "I'm sorry for lying to you."

Thomas's mouth twitches as though he wants to speak, but he stays silent. She knows what he's thinking anyway.

 _Lying about WHAT?_

She plunges on. "Charlie…was someone I knew a long time ago. Before you were born. I met him the summer before my last year at uni, when I was working at a bar called Rusty's. He was part of a comedy act at the theater next door. They performed shows for several weeks that summer. We talked a few times at the bar, after the shows were over."

"Before your last…was that the same summer Joe met Ivy?" Thomas asks, his eyes blinking rapidly. "1977?"

 _He isn't stupid. He can subtract backwards nine months, too._

She can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

Nodding, Elsie feels her heart rate speed up. "Yes. After he and his partner were done with the shows, I never saw him again. That was in late August. Joe and I had broken up in the spring, but we were still writing to each other…we got back together when the term started again. He told me about Ivy a few weeks later. I was devastated."

 _Furious. Betrayed._

Thomas rubs his fingers together, turning to look towards the window. "Devastated…did Joe break up with you before or after you knew you were pregnant?"

 _Shit._

"Before."

Standing up, Thomas strides to the window, his back to her. She watches him sway from side to side, crossing his arms, putting his hands on the top of his head, then dropping them again to his sides, as though he doesn't know what to do with them. He turns his head a little over his shoulder. "You had sex with Charlie, didn't you?"

"Just the once." She hates the defensive tone in her voice, and hates herself for the lie, albeit a small one in context of the rest of it.

 _It was more than just intercourse. We made love. More than once that night._

 _Only one time mattered._

Thomas turns on his heel letting down his foot with a sharp _snap_ on the tiled floor. His eyes blaze. "You lied to me. You _lied_ – you told me ages ago that the "Father" line on my birth certificate said Unknown because you didn't know if my biological father was Joe or some-" he waves his hand, an inconsequential gesture. "-some stranger you had a one night stand with. I accepted that, and I never judged you…but now, _now_ , you tell me that it wasn't a one-off, that you _knew_ him, that you remembered not only his name, but what he did for a living? An actor, you said? Christ, do you have any idea how much it would've meant for me to hear that twenty-five years ago!? What _else_ do you remember?"

"That's all." There's a heaviness in her chest, a weight, guilt that's dragging her down. "I swear, that's all. And I don't remember his full name, just that his first name was Charlie-"

"You LIED!" Thomas roars. "YOU FUCKING LIED TO ME!" He grabs the vase of flowers bought by him, Edward and Anna, and hurls it against the opposite wall.

"I'm so sorry," Elsie crumples the sheet in her fist, the shattering ceramic startling her even as she watches it break. "I should have told you years ago. Thomas, I am so sor-"

"You _should_ be sorry! _"_ Thomas kicks at the broken shards and wet flowers on the floor, red spots on his pale face. Loosening his tie, he balls his hands into fists. It is an old gesture, one Elsie taught him when he was small, to control his temper. Tears flood her eyes as Thomas rages.

"-fucking _knew_ , and never told me _anything_. Jesus fucking Christ! I never asked for his life story, but it would've been good to know _some_ thing, like his _fucking name-_ "

She's feared Thomas's anger for a long time. The reality is even worse. Because behind his profanity and rage, she can hear his hurt and his pain.

And she knows she is the sole cause of it.

The door to the hallway opens. It's the balding nurse. "Is there a problem?" He asks mildly, but his eyes drift from Thomas, who stops shouting, to Elsie, who's fighting tears, to the mess on the floor.

"N-no," Thomas says, breathing hard. "Just…give us some privacy for a few minutes? Please?"

The nurse looks at Elsie. "Are you okay, Mrs. Hughes?"

 _No._

"'m all right," she says, swiping at the tears on her cheek. "We just need some time. This is my son Thomas," she explains to the nurse, who's watching her obviously-angry son.

"Okay," the nurse says slowly as Thomas nods. "But I'll have to send someone in here to clean that up. Call if you need anything else, all right?" The man waits until she nods, then he backs up and closes the door with a click.

Letting out a long breath, Thomas yanks the chair back and sits down again, his hands pressed together like in prayer. "Why didn't you _tell_ me anything about Charlie… _why_?"

He seems to have control over himself again, so Elsie feels it's safe to answer him. "I was trying to protect you," she whispers. It sounds feeble, even to her.

"When I was a child, yes, that made sense," Thomas grunts. "That doesn't explain why you kept silent when I got older – I _asked_ you about my father!"

"I know, but…" Words won't come. The weight drags at her belly, at her mind, at her conscience.

"But _what?_ Were you afraid that I'd think this Charlie was my father, rather than Joe? Well I did! Anyone with eyes could've seen I was no blood relation of Joe's. Especially whenever Peter was at the farm. Chip off the old block…"

"You don't know that you aren't Joe's," Elsie says. The lump in her throat makes her voice squeak. "Not even I know. There weren't DNA tests when you were born, and after Joe and I married we agreed not to have one done."

She doesn't say that Joe's reasoning at the time was because he believed Thomas to be his son.

 _Later on…things changed._

Thomas sits back in the chair and unknots his loose tie. "In my mind when I was growing up, after you'd told me there was someone else…I used to picture Joe, and then this…shadowy figure. Did y'know…" he whispers, "After we moved to the farm, I used to ride my bike to the end of the driveway by the road. I'd read, or draw, but a lot of times I'd just sit there and watch cars go by. I'd wonder if the _other_ man was out there. If he was my father, and if he was, if he knew he had a kid somewhere. Where he was, what he was doing…you can't tell me _you_ haven't thought about him since. _You_ were the one saying his name, all delirious in the back of John Bates' car."

Her own subconscious has betrayed her, she thinks. Saying Charlie's name when she wasn't fully aware of it.

 _It's not the first time that's happened._

She sucks in a wheezing breath, tears pouring hot and fast down her cheeks. All of her pent-up guilt, and the thought of Thomas as a boy wondering where his father was, or who he was, and all the while she kept all scraps of information from him, is unbearable.

 _I've made things worse._

Thomas grips the sides of the chair. "You can't tell me you've never been curious as to who my father _really_ is."

"I was curious," she uses the blanket in a vain attempt to stem her tears. "But you are my son first. At the end of the day, it didn't and it doesn't matter to me who your father is."

 _Liar._

Another unforeseen gift left to Elsie by _her_ long-gone father, Patrick Hughes, has been her wanting Thomas and Anna to know their heritage, even if there was no connection with their biological relatives. Elsie thinks it is highly ironic that in that aspect, Anna knows more about herself than Thomas does. It doesn't escape her that Thomas is also aware of this.

"Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but it matters to _me_." Thomas hisses through his teeth. "Look, I never expected the world's perfect dad to show up. I wasn't, and I'm not, stupid. I just wanted to _know_." His expression is hard. "Last year during Joe's first round of chemo, we talked about my childhood. _He_ suggested taking a DNA test. I wasn't about to say no. We both took it…I can't say what he thought would happen before we had the results, but _my_ intuition was right. Joe Burns wasn't my biological father."

The air leaves Elsie's body as though she's had the breath knocked out of her.

 _He…they…took a DNA test. Thomas didn't tell me._

 _JOE never told me before he died._

 _ **My**_ _intuition was right, too._

For a moment the hospital room dissolves and she's sitting in a dark auditorium, watching her teenage son on stage.

"You…he…" she struggles to say anything coherent, when her mind is anything but.

 _Charlie…the last time I saw him was in the parking lot of Rusty's…he got on a bus and left…he's Thomas's father…Joe wasn't…Charlie is Thomas's father…I knew it…I_ **KNEW** _it…_

"You didn't tell me," she says vaguely, thinking more about Joe.

"Right now, I don't feel bad about that." Thomas pulls his tie off his neck with a snap, and tosses it at his satchel on the floor. "We're not close to being even when it comes to secrets yet…so are you going to tell me _why_ you said nothing to me about the mysterious Charlie, _my father_ , for almost forty years? Surely you have a reason. You _always_ have a reason, Mother dear," he says in that sarcastic voice that she remembers so vividly from his adolescence. "Or are you going to keep that from me for a further forty years?"

"I…"

Of course she has a reason for not telling him. _I was just trying to protect you. Keep you from being hurt, from being disappointed like I was after my Da left…_

The trouble is that she knows that isn't the real reason. And knowing how hurt Thomas is now, no matter how angry he is or what he says to her, she knows he deserves the real reason.

But she's never said it aloud. Not even to herself.

"Well?" Thomas holds out his hands. "How bad can it be? I'd understand if he was cruel to you, or abused you – but you said you only had sex with him once. Unless you're lying about that too. Maybe he was another student at the university? Maybe you knew him from there? Maybe-"

"I didn't." Her heart hammers, her face feels hot, and her breath is short. _Dr. Shah won't let me go home this week._

"I didn't know him for longer than a few weeks…I didn't lie when I told you all I knew about Charlie. He wasn't a student, he was older, late twenties, I'd guess. I never met him before the summer of '77," she puts a hand on her chest, feels her beating heart, wonders if it will stop if she breaks her silence. Like a clock and its last tick before it dies. "It was…easier to say I didn't remember him, that I had a one-night stand-"

" _Easier?_ " Throwing his head back, Thomas yanks his hands through his hair, standing it on end. "It was fucking _easier_ to lie to your son, rather than tell me the truth? Is that it? No good reason, trust Mummy, it was easier lying rather than telling me something that'd take five minutes and save me years of wondering, but no, 'Fuck off, my lad,'" he says in a high, uncanny imitation of Elsie, "You _thought it was easier_ -"

She can tell he's close to tears; whether it's more from rage or hurt, it's impossible to know.

"-so fucking _selfish_ , you always taught us to think of others first, but you? No, of course not, you're the exception to the _FUCKING_ _ **RULE**_ -"

Her shoulders are moving up and down with every breath, and she shakes her head. "It was easier telling you nothing about Charlie, rather than telling you that there WAS something between us," she says, her voice coming out loud. Thomas stares at her, his mouth open, and his hands still in his hair. "I was wrong to keep silent," she says. "I should have told you what I remembered. What I knew. But it was easier to lie than to admit that I…that I…"

 _Easier than admitting it to myself._

Gasping, she feels a sob coming but knows she can't stop it. She presses her clenched fist against her forehead. "God, I loved him from the moment I saw him."

 _Outside Rusty's, looking up at the stars._

"I loved him, and he left, he left me, and I didn't _want_ him to leave…I never said…I never told him…" She's sobbing, gasping, air tearing at her fragile lungs, but the pain is nothing compared to the hole in her chest. "H-he broke my heart-"

Something breaks inside her. She bends forward, a wild cry of grief ripping itself. She's never cried like this, not after Joe or Mam died. Not after Becky's seizure a couple of years before that left her only sister mute.

 _I should have told Charlie I loved him. I should never have let him go._

 _He has never left me._

Dimly, Elsie is aware of Thomas getting up. She sits, tears pouring down her face and her chest aching as he hammers the wall where he'd thrown the vase.

He's crying, too.

* * *

 _ **Early March, 2018**_

Muddy fields stretch to the horizon as Bill Molesley turns onto the long driveway. "Home," he says to Elsie, but she doesn't answer.

It's been ten days since her outburst. Ten days since she told Thomas the truth, ten days since he unleashed his fury on her, ten days since she said aloud the secret that she thought she'd carry to the grave.

Tears prick her eyes and she turns more towards the window, letting Bill think she's taking in the sight of the farmhouse. In reality, she doesn't see it at all.

 _I loved Charlie. It hurt too much to say it, or to admit it…he left, just like Da left. Now I've driven my only son away._

She hasn't spoken with Thomas face to face. Edward had forced him to talk to her on the phone a couple of times. Thomas had apologized for his profane language (and the broken vase). But not for his anger.

She cannot blame him for that.

Anna, predictably, has been going between her brother and mother. She was shocked to hear the whole story from Elsie, but is far more forgiving towards her.

 _I didn't keep a secret about_ _her_ _father. I didn't refuse to tell her anything._

Phyllis is in the kitchen with soup, fresh bread, and hot tea waiting for her. "Do you want it here, or in bed?" She asks, after giving Elsie a hug. "Anna told me you'll need to rest a lot."

"I'll eat in here," Elsie sits down gratefully and sips her tea, Scissors on her lap. String rubs against her feet, meowing. "It's nice to be in a _normal_ room again. Thank you."

"It's good to see you back up and about," Bill smiles from the doorway. Phyllis promises to come back later in the afternoon to check on her before Anna gets there, and the two Molesleys leave.

Silence reigns in the old farmhouse. Except for the clink of the cup on its saucer, her spoon in its bowl, and the cats clamoring for her attention, Elsie hears nothing else.

Her thoughts are loud with all the words that have been said. The familiar lump that has lodged itself so frequently in her throat returns.

 _I'm tired of crying._

At least her tears now don't hurt. As much.

She thinks that the hole in her chest ( _my broken heart_ ) hasn't healed, but it _will_ heal. It reminds her of once when she fell down in the barn, and she hadn't noticed the cut on her leg for a few moments. Once she had felt a little pain, then had looked down to see the gash on her thigh, the pain had increased tenfold.

 _I refused to acknowledge my own pain…I didn't know how bad it was until I spoke aloud._

Trying to suppress a thought, she puts a hand over her lips. "No," she says, salty tears dripping down the side of her nose.

 _No, I won't hide from it anymore._

 _I loved Charlie then. I might still love him._

 _I don't think I ever stopped._

Shuffling out of the kitchen after setting her dishes in the sink, she stops in the hallway. Reaching out, she runs her finger along the frame of her favorite picture. It's one of the few in the house that she brought with her after she and Joe married. It is a painting of a black and white dog in a green meadow.

Elsie smiles, remembering the day she bought it.

 _We were so happy that day…me and Thomas, and Anna. Most of all Anna._

 _There will be happier days ahead._

 _There must be._

* * *

 **A/N: Argh. I'm sorry about the angst, the drama, and the delay in posting…again. This fic is giving me fits! I know what happens, but the darn flashbacks keep getting in the way. This chapter was waaaaaaay longer (and was getting longer by the day) until I gave up and just decided to post this. I know this doesn't appear to move the eventual reunion any closer, but believe me – it does. Elsie has so much to work through…**

 **Seriously, if you have time please give me a little review. Should I put in more flashbacks, to fill in the blanks of the story? Or should I just chuck 90% of them and move ahead with the 'current' timeline?**

 **Thank you. You all are more awesome than I can say!**


	9. Hearing Her Voice

_**March, 2018**_

Of all the things Charles has thought would happen in his search for Els, he never thought he would talk to a stranger via FaceTime.

Yet on a cold Saturday in late winter at Mary's house, he finds himself doing exactly that.

Julie Morgan is Miranda's daughter. Charles would have much preferred to talk to Els's friend, but that is no longer possible.

Miranda did tell Julie a little about Els before her mind became lost to Alzheimer's. However, the small details Julie can remember are more about the two women's friendship back in the '70s, and do not help Charles's search.

"I'm sorry about your mother," he says to Julie at the end of the conversation. "Is there any hope for her condition?"

On the screen, the young woman shakes her head. " _Thank you, but I don't think a vaccine or anything like that will come in time to help her. The only thing we can do now is bring awareness to the disease."_

"I do hope a cure is found, sooner rather than later." Charles folds his hands, resting his chin on top of them.

" _So do we_." Julie glances up at someone out of frame. " _Bethy, does he want to come in? Just let him, we're almost done here."_ Charles hears a small child's voice, and an instant later, a boy appears at Julie's side. She scoops him up and set him on her lap. " _Mr. Carson, this is Gareth._ "

"How old is he?" Charles asks, amused at the tot's confused expression.

" _He'll be two in June."_

Charles smiles and waves. Gareth shyly smiles back, a finger in his mouth. "Hello. Is Gareth a family name?"

Julie laughs. " _No! My partner's just football-mad. Our Gareth was born the night Wales beat Russia during Euro 2016, and Jack insisted on naming him after Gareth Bale._ "

"Ah, right. Well, thank you for your time," Charles says. "I appreciate it very much."

" _You're welcome. I only wish I knew more. If Mum was still…her, she would've helped you as best she could. She wanted to know what happened to Els, too."_

"I don't doubt it." Charles turns his head as the door opens behind him. It's Mary.

" _If you find out anything, could you let us know?"_

"Yes, of course."

" _Good luck. Can you say goodbye to Mr. Carson?_ " Julie kisses her son's head. " _Bye-bye!_ "

Charles waves back until the picture freezes, then closes his laptop.

"How did it go?" Mary asks. She sets a cup of tea down next to him on the table.

"You heard the most interesting bits at the beginning." Charles says. "About Els offering to move in with Miranda after Miranda's ex-boyfriend threatened to hurt her for leaving him. Julie had some other stories her mother had told her, but they were mostly about her and Els working at Rusty's."

"So we're back to square one." Mary sits down with a sigh, setting down her cup. "I had hoped, after talking to Julie last week, that she'd come up with more."

"It's not her fault." Sipping his hot tea, Charles feels the familiar weight of guilt. _If I'd contacted Miranda sooner, maybe I would've found out what happened to Els by now._

 _I hope I haven't left it too late._

He hopes he hasn't dredged up painful memories for Julie, either. She said he hadn't, that it was nice remembering stories her mum had told, but he still worries.

"Edith and Tom followed that name from the sorority list we talked about. They came up with nothing, too."

"Really?" Despite himself, Charles feels his heart sink. True, he hadn't had much hope that finding the name Elizabeth Mackenzie on a list of 1977 graduates from the university would amount to anything. But he had hoped it would lead _somewhere_.

 _It did lead indirectly to finding Miranda's page on Facebook, which lead us to Julie._

"Tom said they hadn't talked to Elizabeth two minutes before they knew she wasn't who we were looking for. She's a very interesting woman, though. A doctor and lecturer who specializes in epilepsy research."

"A doctor?" Charles thinks of the woman he knew. Els was a hard worker, and she might've gone on to be a doctor.

 _She was certainly strong enough_. _In those days any professional woman had to be._

He thinks of how she worked two jobs, and how she stood up to that gross sweaty cook at Rusty's.

"What made them think the doctor isn't Els?" he asks Mary.

"She didn't entirely fit your description." she says. "She has blue eyes, but she's taller than the person you described. And she's a lesbian."

Charles drops his cup onto the saucer with a clatter.

Mary raises her eyebrows. "Edith assumed your time with Els wasn't spent totally in – how did she put it? In 'intellectual conversation'. From your expression, I'm guessing she's right. For once."

 _Unless Edith considers mind-blowing sex on the hotel room floor as 'intellectual conversation'…_

"Well…maybe…Els didn't…know she was…a lesbian…then." His voice trails off. Even to him it sounds stupid. His face burns. He can't look his goddaughter in the face.

"Unlikely." Mary says drily. "Dr. MacKenzie met her wife _at_ university. They married in a private ceremony over thirty years ago, and in a civil one as soon as it was legal."

 _Right._ Charles drinks his tea mostly to hide his mortification.

 _If Els WAS attracted to women, she was a better actress than Vivien Leigh, never mind Alice._

Mary goes back into the kitchen and brings back a plate of homemade biscuits. "I made them, but it's Isobel's recipe. Matthew loves them."

"I'd better leave some for him, then." He jokes.

While eating biscuits, they ponder what to do next. They've contacted Miranda (or her family, at least), and scoured yearbooks and social media for anyone that might be a match.

"I think we should go back to Rusty's," Mary wipes crumbs off her hands with a napkin. "Surely we can find _some_ one who remembers Els from there. If not at the bar, then in the surrounding area."

Would they? Charles isn't sure. The longer they search and come up cold, the more he thinks they'll never find her. The hope that had rekindled in him when Mary, Edith and Tom offered to help him has faded.

"…know there wasn't social media then, but it was the 1970s, not the Edwardian era," Mary continues on. "There _has_ to be a record of her. She wouldn't just vanish into thin air."

"I wouldn't be so sure." Charles smooths a hand over his hair. For years, he's used liberal amounts of product to keep it tamed, but his curls often show themselves later in the day if he doesn't.

Mary frowns. "You talk as though you saw Els vanish."

Finishing his tea, Charles takes Mary's empty cup and stacks it in his. "It might not have been her. At the time, I was almost sure, but with time…who knows." He smiles at his goddaughter. "Do you remember your first day at summer camp?"

"God, yes," groans Mary. "I was _furious_ with Mama and Papa! I was furious with Edith too, of course, because she and Sybil were going to stay with you for a week before going to visit Aunt Rosamund and Uncle Duke. I was even a bit angry at Sybil for the same reason. And I was angry at _you_."

"Me?" Charles cries. "Why? It was your father's idea for you to go to camp, not mine."

Mary shakes her head, smiling. "Yes, but you didn't convince him to change his mind. Even after I'd begged you to. Teenaged logic, right there. But what does my horrible childhood memory have to do with Els?"

* * *

 _ **July, 1995**_

Dust rises into the air as Charles creeps down the dirt lane, following close behind Robert. It feels like they've been on this road for hours since leaving the highway. If it wasn't for the long line of vehicles he's in, he would be worried that they've entered the Twilight Zone.

Eventually they drive beneath a new wooden sign with handsome lettering. _**ROSEWOOD**_.

A line of well-tended wooden buildings curves off to the right. A lake shimmers in the distance behind it. To the left, a dusty field is crowded with parked cars. People stream across the road, slowing the line of traffic even further.

"That explains it." Charles mutters to himself. He follows Robert to almost the end of the field, parking next to the Crawley's Land Rover. Before he's out of his own sedan, Sybil knocks on his window. She jumps up and down as he gets out, her dark braids bouncing off her back. Her gap-toothed grin makes him smile.

"Come on, Carson! Let's go see the lake!" She grabs his hand and pulls him through multiple rows of cars. She runs toward the road, heedless of oncoming traffic, but he yanks her backward.

"Whoa, there! We don't want to get run over, do we?"

"Sorry." Her blue eyes peek up at him.

He can't be angry with her. A line of vehicles go past while they wait for an opportunity to cross. Sybil keeps her small hand in Charles's, but she's positively quivering with excitement.

"Papa says there's boats. I want to _see_."

"Darling, we'll go down to the docks after we go to Mary's cabin. I promise." Cora comes up next to Charles, Edith at her heels. "Sybil's been talking about the camp nonstop," she says under her breath. "Robert and I agreed she's too young for the week-long camp this year, but we're _definitely_ signing her up next summer. Maybe for two weeks if she's still this enthusiastic about it."

"You could've come here this year. Why didn't you?" Charles asks Edith.

The middle Crawley daughter gives him a _you-must-be-joking_ look through her glasses. "And miss my creative writing class? Never."

"Oh yes, of course." Charles nods. Her summer writing course is all she's talked about since the spring.

"Also, the opportunity to have three weeks without Mary around was too good to pass up." Edith smirks.

"Edith!" Cora cries.

"Don't tell me you're surprised." Edith gives her mother an incredulous look. "You know it's true."

"Why are there so many people here?" Charles asks, to cover the awkward moment. The line of cars seems never-ending.

Cora sighs. "Apparently it's the start of a three week session that Mary's part of, another for boys, and _two_ different week-long camps for younger children. It's a madhouse, isn't it?" Glancing behind them, she waves. " _There_ they are."

Robert weaves his way in between cars, pulling Mary's suitcase behind him. Mary trudges far behind him, still back near her family's car.

"God, it's hot out here." Robert wipes his forehead as he reaches them. "Brings back memories…"

"How is she?" Cora asks, her eyes on Mary's distant figure.

"She'll be all right once she settles in." Robert says bracingly. "Once she gets used to it."

Mary catches up to them, clutching her lucky toy dog, but Charles doesn't have a chance to say anything to her. A battered truck with a loud engine has finally stopped in the road, letting them pass. Charles holds up his hand in thanks and the bearded driver nods in return.

After Cora runs into the main office to find out where Mary's cabin is, they all trek behind the line of buildings and turn under a wide dirt path beneath shady trees. Charles takes a breath. Sweat beads on his face, and he can feel it trickling down his back beneath his shirt.

The cabin that Mary is assigned to is a large one, with a wraparound porch and several bunkbeds inside. Charles peers through a window – it's far too crowded with girls and their parents to go inside. Loud music blares from a boom box on the floor.

Charles represses a shudder. Admittedly, the singer on the radio is engaging in impressive vocal gymnastics, but he thinks it's a travesty that the younger generation knows nothing of Eartha Kitt.

" _You'll always be a part of me,_

 _I'm part of you indefinitely_

 _Boy, don't you know you can't escape me_

 _Ooh, darling, cause you'll always be my baby…"*_

It doesn't help that three girls inside the cabin are singing along at the top of their voices.

Mary balks at the doorway. "I'm not going in there." Her set jaw is remarkably similar to her grandmother Violet's.

"Mary, it's a cabin, not a black hole." Cora huffs.

"You're blocking the way." Edith nudges her sister, and Mary gives her a withering stare.

" _Don't_ push me."

On the far side of the porch, Charles notices a lanky black-haired boy leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly bored. Charles frowns.

 _Do I know him from somewhere?_

"Move aside and let them through," Robert tugs on Mary's arm. Two girls, one with flaming red hair and the other with long blonde hair pulled back, hover on the porch steps. Charles puts Sybil in front of him to give the girls room to pass. Edith pokes her head into the cabin after them.

"Five bunkbeds." She turns to Mary. "You'll be sharing a cabin with _nine_ other girls," she says with relish. "Won't that be fun?"

"Edith, stop." Cora massages her temple, her eyes closed.

Charles resists rolling his eyes. The glee in Edith's voice is evident. Mary's face is thunderous.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Robert says to Mary. "I made loads of friends here when I was your age-"

"If you expect me to be friends with strange girls just because we're sleeping under the same roof, you're mad," Mary snarls at her father. "You and Mama have tried that with Edith and me, and we almost killed each other!"

"Who'd want to be friends with you, anyway?" Edith mutters.

"I don't _KNOW_ anyone here!" Mary bursts out. "Papa, can't you ring Mr. Darnley and get me a place at Crown Creek? Girls from my school are there."

Charles can't help but be impressed with his goddaughter's persistence. Ever since she found out her parents were sending her to summer camp, she's been trying to set things on her own terms.

 _She's lost the battle this time._

"Just give it a chance." He says to Mary. "Your father went here, and it looks like a nice place."

Mary rolls her eyes. "It might've been good for him. That doesn't mean this will be a great place for _me_."

"You would find something else to complain about, no matter if you were here or somewhere else." Cora shoots back, exasperated.

Robert swipes at a bead of sweat on the side of his face, a rare gleam of anger in his eyes. "We're not talking about this again, Mary Josephine. You're here at Rosewood, and you are going to stay here for all three weeks. _**No. Exceptions**_."

Mary licks her lips. "But Papa…"

"No," he snaps. "Your mother and I will help you get settled. Now, go inside and behave like the polite young lady we've taught you to be."

Without another word, Mary nods and goes inside, her shoulders slumped. Cora and Robert follow her.

"Let's stay out here." Charles tells Edith. He thinks it's a good idea to start the sisters' separation early. "It's too crowded inside." _And too loud._

He feels a bit sorry for Mary. He knows how much she didn't want to go to (any) camp, but he won't contradict her parents in front of her.

He leans against the railing. The boy opposite them is now sitting on the railing opposite with his back to them, his long legs dangling. Charles wishes he would turn around. Maybe if he had a better look at the young man, he could figure out where he'd seen him before.

Sybil tugs on Charles's hand. "Can we go to the lake?"

He smiles down at her. Cora had promised her youngest daughter, and a walk would be nice.

" _Please?_ "

Charles glances at the mysterious boy's back, but the lad isn't moving. He turns his attention back to Sybil.

"I need to tell your mother where we're going first."

Walking to the doorway, he can just see Robert inside, helping Mary pull a fitted sheet around a mattress on a top bunk. Cora chats loudly with another woman. The music is, if anything, even louder inside. So is the girls' singing.

" _I know that you'll be back, boy_

 _When your days and your nights get a little bit colder…_

 _I know that you'll be right back, baby_

 _Baby, believe me it's only a matter of time_

 _Of time…"_

"I'M TAKING THE GIRLS TO THE LAKE." Charles bellows. "BE RIGHT BACK!" Cora waves in his direction in understanding.

"Yay!" Sybil leaps down the three stairs from the porch to the ground, and takes off running. "Let's go!"

"Wait _up_ ," Edith tears after her. "You have to stay with me and Carson!"

They catch up to Sybil behind one of the other cabins. Making their way to the lake, they walk on the docks, admiring one of the sailboats. Then Sybil leads them along the shoreline, wanting to see the geese up close. They want to get close to _her_. Charles and Edith laugh when one of them chases her up the hill.

"It's time to find your parents and Mary, and find some shade," Charles touches the end of Sybil's nose the fourth time she runs up the hill. "They'll be wondering where we are. Your face looks like a ripe tomato."

"I am _dripping_. Can we get something cold to drink?" Edith's glasses slide down her face, and she wipes her face with her shirt before putting them back on. Charles doesn't blame her.

"That's a good idea. Your father said there's vending machines in the dining hall."

The side door to the place is open, and there's girls going in and out, laughing and carrying on. Charles is relieved to see several machines, and he starts dropping coins in one to get a water bottle for Sybil and Edith.

 _Ridiculous, these prices. And for WATER._

There's another half-open door leading to what looks like an office. From the conversation Charles can hear over several teenage girls talking and beating on another machine, he thinks it's the first aid clinic.

"That's the last of the blood. See, we got you cleaned up in no time-"

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._ One of the girls at the machine next to Charles kicks it. "Jessie, try again! I think it's loose now!"

"Nah, that didn't work-"

"You shouldn't need stitches, I don't think."

"The coin's down there, put it back in-"

"Thank God for that!" A woman's soft voice laughs. "Thank _you_. No harm done then, except to my pride."

Charles's head snaps up so fast his neck cracks. Coins slip out of his sweaty fingers onto the floor, but he doesn't notice.

 _ **ELS!?**_

He hasn't heard the waitress's voice in years, hasn't thought of her since he can't remember when, but his heart practically ceases beating in his shock.

 _It's HER._

He turns so fast it's like a twirl, and he loses his balance, falling onto the hard floor, knees first, with a grunt. He doesn't care. His only thought is to get to the other door only feet from him, to see for himself if it's really her. He races toward the door that's ajar.

Edith calls behind him. "Carson! Where're you going?"

He flings the door open and finds himself facing a grey-haired nurse who he doesn't recognize at all. No one else is in the small room, though another door leading to the outside is still swinging open, like someone just left.

"Do you need help?" The nurse asks.

He barges across the small room and leans out the outside door, but is blinded by sunlight. Blinking, when his sight clears all he can see is a mass of people on the main trail.

 _God, no. I_ _swear_ _I heard her!_

"Where did she go?" He says to the nurse. "The woman – there was a woman just here, wasn't there? Who was she?"

The nurse's eyebrows fly up. "Yes, there was. I don't know her name, I just know she had a cut that needed tending to."

Charles looks outside again, frantically scanning the crowd in either direction, but sees no one who he thinks might be Els. It's like she's vanished into thin air.

Bitterly disappointed, he turns to see a confused Edith in the doorway to the dining hall. "I thought we were going to get water," she says.

"We are." He glances at the nurse. "I apologize for breaking in here like this."

Sybil's collected the coins he dropped. After getting water for the girls and himself, and making sure they drink some, they leave the dining hall. Charles carries Sybil on his back. She's really too big for it anymore, but he wants to search for Els a little more.

"I thought Mary's cabin was that way," Edith nods to their left as they come to a crowded spot where the paths cross.

She's right, but he's not interested in meeting the others. Yet.

"Let's go this way. Stay close." He strides forward, his eyes moving from person to person in front of them. He catches a glimpse of a woman in a dark blue shirt with ROSEWOOD in white lettering across the back. He can't be sure, but the sunlight streaming through the trees makes her hair look red. The way she walks makes his heart skip.

Speeding up, he maneuvers through the crowd, Sybil clinging on to him and Edith following. Once he thinks he loses sight of the woman when someone bumps into him, but he's reassured when he catches a glimpse of the dark blue shirt again.

"Miss?" He asks, reaching out and touching the woman on the shoulder, his heart in his mouth. "I beg your pardon."

The instant she turns, he knows she's not Els. She can't be more than eighteen or nineteen years old.

And, as he reminds himself, it's been almost that long since he's seen the waitress.

"S-sorry," he stammers. "I thought you were someone else."

* * *

 _ **March, 2018**_

"So you thought you heard her, and then you thought you saw her." Mary says, a line between her eyes.

"Yes." Charles says. "Though by the time I left the camp with your sisters as I and your parents had planned, I'd convinced myself I'd just imagined it. Or that I had only thought I'd heard her – after all, I hadn't heard her voice in years. How would I know?"

"Memory is an amazing thing. Just ask Granny," Mary smiles. "Maybe you didn't hear Els. Or maybe you did. There were _hundreds_ of people there that day." Mary picks up their dishes and they go into the kitchen. "What I don't understand is why she'd be wearing a blue Rosewood shirt. That's what the counselors wore. Most of them were university students."

"The woman I caught up with was that age." Charles remembers how the young woman had smiled politely and walked off.

The memory of his complete disappointment and confusion is stronger still.

"The nurse and the head counselor were the exceptions, but they were both older, in their fifties. I could be remembering wrong, though." Mary says.

"The nurse wasn't her." Charles leans on the counter. "I guess she _could_ have been. I hadn't seen Els for years. But there was someone else in the room with her…someone who I thought sounded like Els. More than the nurse did."

 _How do I know I'm remembering her voice? Or how she looked?_

"Why didn't you ask the nurse where the woman came from, or if anyone came with her?" Mary runs water in the sink over their dishes. "She might not have been alone."

"I didn't think to ask," Charles sighs, rubbing his eyes. He's thought of that numerous times. "I was too stunned at hearing someone I hadn't heard in years. God, what a stupid fool I was!"

"No you're not." Mary dries her hands off and squeezes his shoulder.

He still feels like one. "Thanks."

"Carson?" She asks after a long silence. "Can I ask you something?"

For once she sounds tentative. Unsure.

"Of course." He says, his eyebrows together.

Mary taps her finger on the counter. "This woman was very special to you. But you barely knew her, not even her full name. Why does she mean so much to you, after all this time? I don't mean that I don't want to help you find her anymore," she rushes on. "I do. I just want to understand."

"It's a fair question." He leans against the island.

In truth, he's thought about it a lot.

 _People come and go in our lives all the time…why do some make an impression, and others are forgettable?_

"I'm not sure I understand it myself," he begins. "I met women before Els who I fancied – some who I loved, or thought I loved." The memory of Alice floats in his mind. It still amazes him that she meant so much to him at one time and he's almost forgotten her now.

 _Though not the lesson she taught me._

"An earlier breakup shook me badly…it destroyed almost all my faith that someone could love me for _me_. That someone would want me. That summer, by the time I met Els, I was ready to go home. Back to my father and start over. Start my real life. But it never really began, and Sybil's death-" he takes a deep breath, "Just brought that fact to the fore. I've lived my life in the shadows. Afraid to face what I always knew."

He feels a lump forming in his throat, but he pushes through it. "Els was different than anyone, not just other women, _any_ one I've ever met, before or since. She was natural. It felt like she listened to me, really _heard_ me, even when we weren't talking to each other." He smiles, thinking of the glass of water on the bar. "I felt comfortable around her. Even when she teased me!" Laughing a little, he shakes his head. "Of course there was a spark there, I won't deny it. Lust on my part. I was a fairly young man, and she was a beautiful woman. Inside and out."

 _Best damn kisser I've ever known._

Mary watches him, her dark eyes soft.

"But there was no fuss, no pretension. Neither of us tried to be anyone but ourselves. Back then that's the way it felt to me. Maybe not to her. But I loved her," he whispers. "No. I _love_ her. I never stopped." He sniffs, wipes the corner of his eye. "That's why I've got to find her. Try to, with the time that's given to me."

Charles's goddaughter says nothing while he collects himself.

"I was afraid to search for her for years because I convinced myself that she didn't feel as strongly as I did. That if she did remember me, that our time together was nothing more than a fling," he says.

 _I wouldn't blame her if she did think that. One night together._

He can almost picture the waitress's shyness, the way she covered her breasts in his hotel room.

"What if you find her and that's what she thinks?" Mary asks, her voice gentle.

"Then I'll be disappointed," he sighs. "And it'll hurt. But I know how _I_ feel. At least I know that I've loved someone – truly loved someone – once in my life."

"That's what most people want."

"I'm sorry I've shocked you." He gives her a smile. "Rambling on about my feelings…it's very unlike me."

"It is." She grins back. "But I've always known you've had them, despite your best efforts to hide them."

"Don't tell anyone," he jokes, half-serious. "I think you're right about Rusty's," he says. "We need to go back there, to that area. There's got to be _some_ trace of her."

"I agree." Clearing her throat, Mary picks up her phone. "I'll ring Tom and see when he can go with us. Edith's free on weekends, but not so much during the week. That's true for you and me as well."

Tom is busy painting Sybbie's room. "My mum took her to her house," he says, showing Charles and Mary his progress on FaceTime. "Hopefully by tomorrow it won't smell like paint so much in here." He hears their plan, agreeing that the best chance to find Els is likely in the place where she worked.

"I'm hopeful we can find out more there," he says. "Edith told me just yesterday that Michael Gregson's planning on publishing a story about that area. He's been in contact with the local historical society. It's undergoing something of a renaissance, with the old restaurant and the theater being renovated."

"What do you think about that?" Mary asks.

Tom picks at a paint spot on his shirt. "I don't know. I mean, it'll probably be good for the area, because it's been in decline for so long. But at the same time, I'm afraid they'll lose the soul of the place. It used to be a solid working class town. After the changes, I'm afraid it'll end up just being another victim of gentrification."

"Is that a bad thing?" Charles asks, his eyebrows raised. "Surely the people living there would rather there be money coming in, rather than just a shuttered factory rusting away and old buildings crumbling into ruin."

"I just think there needs to be a balance," Tom insists. "Anyway, Edith told me Michael's done a fair amount of research for the cover story already. He told Edith the historical society's found records from the factory, and old pictures of Rusty's. Pictures of staff through the years, et cetera."

"She hasn't told him about what we're doing, has she?" Mary glances at Charles. "We agreed no one but Matthew would know."

"No, no, she hasn't said a word about our search to him. It just happened that he's working on a story there. The new Rusty's is re-opening in May, as is the theater. They're going to have an open house and a bunch of other events are planned. Do you want to go, Mr. Carson? The historical society will have a booth set up."

"In May?" It's farther into the future than Charles would wish, but it seems that might be his best hope to find a significant tie to Els. "Yes, I'd like to go."

It feels like everywhere else, they've run into dead ends.

* * *

 **A/N: Slight anachronism, but whatever. The song blaring from the radio is "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey.**


	10. Moving On

**A/N: Posting this chapter and the next in haste, since they're both really one (VERY) long chapter. I've been terrible and not replied to your kind reviews, but please know I cherish each and every one of them.**

 **Happy Spring!**

 _ **April, 2018**_

The morning sun gleams through Elsie's bedroom window. She turns her laptop so it's out of the glare.

"That's better. So tell me again, what did they decide? Which menu?"

On the screen, Lavinia moves her mouse. " _Let me pull up their file, just so I've got it right. Yes…they want the Italian course, with the vegan option as their second choice._ "

"And is this their final answer?" Elsie asks drily. "I feel like I'm on the telly on a bad game show."

Lavinia laughs. " _Amy was quite adamant, saying that this IS their final decision. She said if her mum rang us again, telling us something different, that we should refer Mrs. Taylor back to her daughter._ "

"The mother of the bride is channeling Godzilla."

" _Something like that_."

They chat for another half an hour about business – upcoming events, Alfred's reports, bills paid to vendors.

" _I heard through the grapevine that you sold the farm._ " Lavinia says during a pause. " _Is it true?_ "

Raising an eyebrow, Elsie adjusts her glasses. "Which grapevine is that?"

" _The usual – Alfred heard it from Edward._ "

The mention of Edward immediately makes her think of Thomas. Her heart gives a painful throb. "The source was telling the truth."

" _And that's it?_ "

"That's it."

Having gotten Peter's consent and making the decision to sell the Burns farm, Elsie is wasting no time. The Merrell brothers, relatives of Anna's friend Gwen, offered a more than fair price when she approached them. Even a couple of months ago, she had thought of staying at the farm longer.

But her illness and the revelations it revealed has made some things very clear.

It's time to move on.

" _Where are you moving? And when? I assume you've found a place._ "

"Yes, I'll be moving at the end of this month to a refurbished two bedroom apartment. Not far from the office, as a matter of fact."

It's also not far from another apartment building she lived in three decades before. It's funny how life can come full circle, she thinks.

Lavinia leans on her elbow. " _That's fast…let me or Alfred know if we can help at all._ "

"Thanks."

As much as Elsie wants to get back to Lucille's full time, she knows it will be better if she goes back to work properly after her move. She knows she'll need the familiarity of work more at that point.

Phyllis comes by at lunch as she has for the last couple weeks, helping Elsie go through everything in the old farmhouse. Most of the furniture is staying. Some things will be sold at auction, due to be held later in the spring. The vast majority of Elsie's belongings and items that she's chosen to keep or give to Thomas and Anna, and those set aside for Peter, are either already out of the house, or packed up.

"Are you sure you're not taking things too fast?" Phyllis asks as they carefully wrap the painting in the hallway in a blanket. "Too much change in a short period of time?"

"I'm not sure of much right now, but I am sure this is the right decision for me." Elsie pulls a long stretch of tape over the blanket. "It's past time, really."

"It'll be different not having you close by." Phyllis's voice is wistful. "I've gotten used to just walking down the lane. Now I'll have to drive all the way into the city to see you!"

"I'll miss our chats. And Joseph plowing our driveway as well as yours in winter. You two have been the best neighbors…I've been very blessed." Elsie gives Phyllis a watery smile. "Joe loved this place, but it was always more his, than mine. I need my own place to start fresh."

"That's understandable." Phyllis says. "When we got married, Joseph and I agreed to find our place together – his _and_ mine. Once I never would've thought the old Campbell farm could be home for me. But after all our renovations, it's perfect for both of us. And the dogs, of course." She smiles. "We keep trying to get Dad to move in too, but he's too independent for that yet, he says."

"I'll be able to check in on your father-in-law after I move," Elsie reminds her. "I promised your Mr. Molesley that I'd do that for him."

They lift the wrapped painting and set it against the wall. Phyllis grins. "Dad will be able to check in on you, too. He said it'd be a little like when you lived with them, when Mum was still alive."

"True. Dear Nina." Elsie rubs a bit of dust off trim near the floor.

"Will Thomas check on you?" Phyllis asks softly.

Elsie can't look at her, keeping her eyes on the trim. "I hope so."

They have spoken since his outburst at the hospital, but they haven't scratched the surface about their explosive conversation. Elsie wonders if their relationship will ever be the same again.

 _Likely not._

She doesn't blame Thomas for not telling her about taking the DNA test, though she wishes she could talk to Joe about it. Why he suggested it.

 _You know why._

There are still some things she's not prepared to face.

Later, after Phyllis leaves and she does some more packing, Elsie goes upstairs again to take a nap. It makes her feel old.

As does the glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Nearly all of her auburn color is gone, replaced by silver hair.

The doctor has ordered her to rest, and what with all the changes, she knows she has to abide by the instructions. She's often thought that her fatigue is not just residual from the pneumonia, but from the long months of Joe's illness. And perhaps from before that. She has not had a good rest since – well, she can't remember how long it's been.

 _Maybe before Mam died._

 _If then._

She wakes in the mid-afternoon, String curled at her side on the bed. Blinking, she smiles sleepily at the familiar figure sitting up against the headboard.

"Hey, you."

"Hey you," Anna sets down her book. "How are you? Can I get you anything?"

"Fine. Just a glass of water, please." Elsie sits up, rubbing her eyes. Anna brings her water a couple minutes later. "When did you get here?" She asks.

"About twenty minutes ago. You looked so relaxed I almost laid down, too."

"Are you feeling all right?" Elsie glances at her daughter in alarm. There are dark circles beneath Anna's eyes, but otherwise she looks the same.

Anna huffs out a sigh. "I'm _fine_ , Mum. It's just the time of year, what with the musical coming up. My students are crazy because the weather's finally getting better, and it's forever until the school year ends."

"You'll have less of a burden once Mr. Branson comes back." Elsie sips her water, watching Anna stifle a yawn. "Assuming he will come back."

"Oh, he will. He loves teaching and misses the kids, but he and the administration want him to return with a clean slate. So that'll be in the autumn."

"Just in time for the Renaissance Festival." Elsie smiles. "I suppose you'll want me to attend again."

Running a hand through her tangled blonde hair, Anna twists it back into a messy bun. "If you like."

"I enjoy it, as you well know."

Anna doesn't answer, and Elsie feels a strong sense of déjà vu. It reminds her of Thomas.

 _Something's on her mind._

There is a long pause.

"Mum?" Anna keeps her eyes down, her finger tracing the sheet on the bed. Elsie's heart aches. Whatever her daughter wants to say, she's afraid of _her_ reaction.

The very last thing Elsie has ever wanted for Anna is for her to be afraid.

She sets down the glass on her nightstand and takes a breath. "What is it?"

Anna meets her eyes. "Thomas is angry with you – _very_ angry – but he's hurt, too. He says things he doesn't mean-"

"He meant what he said to me." Elsie says gently. She turns aside her head to cough. The tears are forming in her eyes again but she doesn't bother stopping them.

 _I should have known this is what she wanted to talk about._

"He meant every word." She says. "And…and I needed to hear them."

 _Perhaps not worded_ _quite_ _so strongly, but the lesson was necessary._

"But you're not selfish," Anna argues. "You're the least selfish person I know!"

Her daughter's faith in her makes Elsie feel worse.

 _Joe called me unselfish, too._

"You're sweet, but I _have_ been selfish," she says. "With a lot of things, including with Thomas."

 _Especially with Thomas._

Her son's anger is, on a certain level, justified – as she always knew it would be.

"I was too concerned about my own feelings," she whispers, wetness sliding past her nose. "I chose to put them above his. That was wrong."

"You had a lot to think of." Anna argues. "Us, Joe, Aunt Becky's care, Lucille's, the farm. Looking after friends. You had to put yourself first with _something_."

"Anna," Elsie puts her hand over the younger woman's. "Stop trying to defend me on this. Please," she pleads. "I won't try to justify my choices anymore, and you shouldn't try for my sake, either. I was wrong to keep silent for so long. What happened between me and-and Charlie didn't just affect me. It affected Thomas, too."

And it affected more than her son, she knows now. The cause of the shadows beneath Anna's eyes is not simply down to work fatigue.

 _At least I was able to make peace with Joe before he died._

"What about Charlie?" Anna asks after a long silence. She hands her mother a tissue.

"What about him?" Elsie dabs at her cheek.

"Don't you think you should find him?"

"Thomas wants to, and I don't blame him," Elsie sighs. "He's free to do what he wants. I won't stop him."

"I wasn't asking if Thomas wanted to find him, I was asking if _you_ wanted to find him." Anna picks up a yowling Scissors from the floor and pets her.

Elsie bites her lip, mindful of Anna's probing, but unwilling to unburden herself further. "I don't think it's a good idea. I've mucked this up too much already. It's best I just leave the past alone."

She almost believes what she says.

In truth, she's afraid of what she'd find. Not Charlie dead - that she could handle. But to see him either a broken man, alone; or happy, with a wife and children; she can't decide what would be worse. She's afraid of what she would find. If the man matches her memory.

She's afraid of her fragile heart being shattered again.

Anna lets go of the cat and squeezes Elsie's hand. "It's an open wound," she says steadily. "Best to stitch it up and let it heal."

It sounds like something _she'd_ say. Elsie can't fight the logic behind it, as much as she would like to.

"I…I wouldn't know where to look for him." She whispers.

"What about the theater, the one next to the bar? He was there for several weeks, you said. What was it called?"

"The theater was called _The Hound_ and the bar was Rusty's." Elsie says, remembering the place where she'd worked. Even the memory of cigarette smoke and stale beer seems to linger around the name. The bar owner, never happy; Jos, who was forever trying to flirt with her or feel her up; Miranda, her good friend who Elsie left behind without explanation.

 _I should've told her I was pregnant. She wouldn't have judged me._

 _I should've kept in contact with her, too._

Dancing with Charlie under the dim lights…

Elsie shakes herself to pay attention to Anna.

"Okay, _The Hound._ You said Charlie was part of an act there," Anna leans forward. "That's where I would start. I bet we could find something. Newspaper clippings, maybe even pictures." The corner of her lip turns up. "I've spent quite a lot of time in libraries…there's nothing I can't find."

"I know." Elsie says, smiling softly.

"I told Thomas that I'd help him as much as he'd let me. I'm making you the same offer."

"You're very kind. But what if we don't find anything?"

 _What if he isn't who I remember him to be?_

 _How much of him do I even remember?_

"Then at least we tried," Anna says with conviction. "I am glad you're using _we_ in this. Does that mean you want me to help _you_ find Charlie too?"

Elsie holds her breath, then lets it out. "On one condition." She stares into her daughter's blue eyes. "That you tell no one about this. It's a private thing…I don't want anyone to know. Not Mr. Bates or Gwen or Mr. Molesley or any of your coworkers-"

"As to my boyfriend, his name is John. And I won't tell-"

"And _not_ Mary Crawley." Elsie says, her voice firm. "I know you're good friends, but this is not something I want her to hear about."

 _That woman does not need a reason to judge me. Or our family._

Anna sighs. "Mum, Mary is my BEST friend. The things we share with each other, we don't tell anyone else. Believe it or not."

Elsie doesn't really believe it, but she can see Anna does.

"But I won't tell Mary." Anna presses her lips together. "You're my mother, and I respect your wishes."

"Thank you."

"Thomas said pretty much the same thing." Anna says. "To not tell anyone. Only Edward knows, of course. Thomas didn't want me to tell John anything either, so I haven't. It's made for a couple awkward conversations – I don't like lying to my boyfriend about what I'm doing, so when he asked earlier this week why I stayed over at Thomas and Edward's on Tuesday – because of course I could tell him _that_ – I said I was working after dinner and lost track of time. Doing research on a project."

"And he wanted to know what the project is." Elsie hopes John Bates didn't pressure Anna for details. She doesn't think he would, but she's still getting to know him.

Tilting her head, Anna smiles. "He wanted to _help_. Do you know how hard it was to tell him he couldn't?"

"What did he say?" Elsie raises her eyebrows.

"He said, 'You know I'd help you with whatever you're doing.' He looked hurt." Anna bites her lip. "He loves me, Mum."

A twinge that has nothing to do with Charlie pierces Elsie's heart. "Has he _told_ you that?"

"Yes." Anna rests her chin on her knees, her eyes on her mother. "I told him I loved him first. Months ago."

"Anna…" Tears flood Elsie's eyes again and she presses her fingers against her lips. _Why did I not see this?_

 _It isn't like I've had nothing going on for the last year or two._

She's always been fiercely protective of her daughter. Anna has only had two proper boyfriends, one who she met at school and dated partway through university, and another man who she dated after graduation. Both were decent men but not for her. Elsie knows Anna has longed to find 'the one' for years, and has worried that her past has made that impossible.

Anna gives her a watery smile. "We've talked about moving in together. It makes sense – either I'm at his place, or he's at mine most evenings - but with everything going on, I didn't want to deal with that right now. John says he'll wait for me to move forward. He doesn't push me at all."

"That's good." Elsie laughs a little, wiping her eyes. "That's very good. I am _so_ happy for you."

"Good, because I am really happy. I mean, I miss Joe and this argument between you and Thomas is hard, but other than that, everything else in my life is pretty good right now."

"I'm sorry you're in the middle of me and Thomas," Elsie says. Guilt gnaws at her. "I never wanted you to feel ripped in two."

" _I'm_ not ripped in two. I love both of you just as much as ever. I just wish you both would talk to each other!" Anna shakes her head, smiling. "You're both _so_ stubborn. It's like you're related."

"We are alike in some ways." Elsie gathers String onto her lap. "I would like to talk to him about it, but it doesn't seem right to do it over the phone."

 _I miss my boy._

Anna slides off the bed. "You won't have to talk over the phone. He's helping with the move. I made sure of that. And between Edward and me, we'll make sure the two of you have some time to yourselves."

* * *

The move from the farm to Elsie's new apartment is surprisingly smooth. Two Men And A Truck move the biggest furniture she's keeping, and the Molesleys, Thomas and Anna help her pack everything else in a rented truck. Within six hours, everything is in her new home. Including the cats.

Thomas goes home to get Edward, and when they get back to the apartment Elsie's son-in-law insists on helping set up her new kitchen.

"I know you have the use of your eyes and I for the most part don't," he says, standing by the counter with his cane, "But never fear, you'll be able to find everything. It's all based on a logical system."

"Knife set?" Anna lifts the carefully wrapped package out of a box and begins to undo the tape.

"Here, by me." Edward pats the edge of the counter. "It's heavy enough so the cats won't knock it off. And it's within reach for cooking."

"You do know that I don't do much cooking myself?" Elsie asks, leaning in the doorway. String meows by her foot, keeping a safe distance from Blackjack, Edward's seeing-eye dog.

Edward grins. "I'm aware, Mum. You never know when you might get the inclination."

"Once in a blue moon." She shakes her head and goes back to her bedroom. Thomas sits on the floor with a toolkit, reassembling her bed.

"You don't have to do that." Awkwardly, she steps around him and opens a tall box of bedding.

He harrumphs under his breath. "Oh, I bloody well do. My husband and sister are setting up your kitchen, so it's better if I make myself fucking _useful_."

"No swearing! You know the rules." Edward yells from the kitchen.

Sucking in air through his nose, Thomas glares at the bedframe. "Christ, he lost half a leg and his sight, but he's made up for it with fucking _bionic_ hearing-"

"If you love me, stop it! You're smart enough to use other words. And _don't_ take the Lord's name in vain!" There's a warning note in Edward's voice.

Squeezing the screwdriver, Thomas lets out a long breath. "All right, I'll STOP! HAPPY?" He bellows down the short hallway.

Edward makes his way to the bedroom door. "When you're not happy, I'm not." He fumbles for the doorknob and finds it. "You know how to try and change that. So I suggest you do it while you've got an opportunity." He pulls the door shut behind him and goes back to the kitchen.

 _Right_. Elsie turns slowly, a thick comforter in her arms. _Shall I need this for protection?_

Thomas is still glowering at the closed bedroom door. He glances up at her, then bends over the bedframe again, screwing it back together.

Elsie licks her lips. "Thomas-"

"I have nothing to say to you." He gets up and goes to another corner, pushing the pieces together. "I doubt _you_ have anything to say that would change things."

She watches him for a few moments. Sees his long fingers, his intent grey eyes noticing every detail of the task he's set himself. The lines at the corner of his eyes. The one strand of hair that never stays where it's supposed to, falling onto his forehead.

"I want my son back," she says, not looking away from him. "I've missed you."

He stops moving for a moment, head down. Then he digs through the little bag of screws. A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You lied to me. You told me that you didn't know anything about the 'other man' as you called him, and all along, you _did_ know. How am I supposed to forgive you for not telling me the truth years ago?"

She's apologized enough. _I can't change the past._ "I forgave you when you got caught stealing wine-"

"That was _nothing_ like this, and you know it." He drops the screwdriver onto the floor and stands up, balling his hands into fists. Despite his flaring temper, she can see his restraint. "I should have known you'd bring that up." He says, shaking his head.

"Do you think I was pleased to hear from the police that my fifteen-year-old son had been arrested for theft?" Her eyebrows are raised. "Did I welcome you with open arms when I came to bail you out?"

Thomas rolls his eyes. "No, and I didn't expect you to."

"And when you and James Kent took the Dawsons' dog and locked her in the shed as a prank, what did I do? I forgave you." Elsie presses on. It isn't what she wants, to run down the list of times Thomas has disappointed her, but she thinks he needs a reminder that he hasn't been perfect, either.

"We were idiot kids, and I was an idiot about Jimmy, you know that! We are talking about _completely_ different-"

"-and when you gambled away your savings at university, who paid your debt _and_ your fees? Me. And I forgave you for that, too." Elsie sets down the comforter on top of the mattress.

"If this is what you're going to argue with, then fine. You win. You're the better person." Thomas says.

"That is _not_ what I'm saying. I'm not a perfect person, and I've made my share of mistakes." Elsie says, keeping calm. "When I kept silent about Charlie, I didn't take into account your feelings, or how much a few spare details would mean to you."

"'A few spare details'? A _few spare details_!?" Red spots appear on Thomas's cheeks. "You make it sound like you forgot milk on a grocery list! Anna's birth mum neglected her and gave her up, but _she_ never lied to Anna about _her_ father," he snaps at Elsie.

Elsie grunts like she's been punched, and it feels like she has been.

 _It would hurt less if he would've hit me._

The blood drains out of her face. "That…is… _low_." She grinds out, feeling both her anger boiling as well as wanting to cry. "God in Heaven, is that what you REALLY think of me!?"

From the horrified look on Thomas's face, he regrets the words he's so carelessly said. He holds his hands up. "No, no, no…I'm sorry. I…didn't mean…shit, I don't think when I'm angry-"

"No, you DON'T think when you lose your temper." _Like me._ It is a struggle not to lose her own temper. "I am _not_ like Anna's birth mother."

"I know." Thomas leans against the wall, resting his arms on his head, looking miserable. "You're the opposite." He rubs his face. "Anna's caseworker was desperate, ringing what, ten people before she reached you? You could've told her no, too. But I came home from school and there Anna was, this tiny, malnourished, girl with a hundred bruises and scrapes sitting at our kitchen table. A little kid who wet the bed and was scared of her own shadow, never mind you and me. And look at her now – nobody would believe she was like that. You did that. _You_ saved her when you adopted her. God, Mum." He shakes his head, tears in his eyes. "You could've given _me_ up for adoption when I was born. No one would've blamed you. Single mum and all that…you probably wish you _had_ given me up."

His image blurs, and Elsie feels wetness on her cheeks.

 _Little leaf, clinging to the tree._

"I never wanted to give you up." She croaks. "…I couldn't."

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, his face turned aside. "I'm so sorry. I **never** should've compared you to that…that woman…never mind my fucking temper." He digs his toe into the floor.

 _He's angry at himself._

"My lad…my quick-tempered, stubborn, infuriating lad. You saved ME – you gave me a purpose, especially after Mam died." She takes a shuddering breath. "No matter what you do, I will always love you."

"I don't deserve that." He's still not looking at her, but tears drip off his chin. "You'd probably be glad to see the back of me now, after all I've done and said." He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, like he used to when he was young.

For some reason, the way he says it almost makes her laugh. "Actually, I'm glad you're here. Even now." She rubs her wet cheek. "Now, come over here and give me a kiss."

He gives her a hug, and leans his head on her shoulder, which makes her cry in earnest. It reminds her when he was a wee bairn, and how she used to carry him on her shoulder at Jack's Place.

"I missed you, too." He whispers. "I forgive you. I do. Please forgive me for shouting at you. Especially when you were in hospital. I should _never_ have acted like that when you were well, let alone ill. You raised me to be a better man."

"I did, and you did know better. You'd had a shock." She uses the sleeve of his t-shirt to wipe off her face and gives him a watery smile. "Of course I forgive you. I'm your mum."

"You're the best mum." He kisses her on the cheek. "And I love you. I should tell you that more often, 'cause it's true. Edward's always reminding me."

"Your husband is a wise man." Holding his hands, she sees his wedding ring. Hers is no longer on her finger, but now belongs to Peter's fiancée Kelsey. "I can't make time go backwards to when you were small and tell you about Charlie. Going forward, I won't keep anything back from you that you want to know about him."

"Thanks. And I'll try not to get angry if there's other things you haven't told me. I know you _were_ trying to protect me, especially after your childhood. Your dad was a-a-" he can't seem to find the right word.

"Complete fucking arse?" She supplies, and it makes him smile.

"Yeah, that." He squeezes her hands. "Look, I didn't tell you about the DNA test – well, because there never seemed to be a good time to tell you about it, but more because I thought Joe would've told you. I'm surprised he didn't. I wonder why."

"Well, we'll never know for certain." She sighs. "It may be because he – he knew I already suspected that he wasn't your father."

"Why would he think that? Did he say anything to you?" Thomas's eyes widen.

Elsie meets Thomas's eyes. Part of her balks at telling him the details – not because she wants to keep anything from him, but because she doesn't want to disrespect Joe's memory.

 _Does it matter now? He's dead._

"Yes," she says. "The only time he was blunt about it was during your last year at school. It was a combination of things, really…the older you were, the more obvious it became that you weren't cut from the same cloth as he was. You weren't the only one who noticed."

"Did _you_ suspect Joe wasn't my father? And for how long? You said you didn't know either way."

"I didn't know whose you were when you were born, and for a long time after," she says honestly. "Except that you were mine. After Joe contacted me again and we got married, I had a chance to compare you to him." She cocks her head, her eyes sad. "I wasn't blind, either. You were well into your teens before I finally started admitting to myself that it was likely you weren't Joe's. It would've been easier for all of us if you were."

Thomas nods. "I get that. I thought the same thing myself, growing up. But why didn't Joe say anything to you until – when? My last year at school?" he asks. He doesn't sound angry, just confused. "You and Joe got married when I was eleven. He wasn't the most intellectual person, but he wasn't stupid. Or blind. It wouldn't have taken him six years to realize we weren't related."

"No. I think he believed you were his for a long time."

There's a soft knock on the door, and Anna opens it. "Sorry. Edward and I wanted to make sure both of you were okay."

"You mean my man wanted to make sure I hadn't made Mum cry again. Well, I did." Thomas sighs, slipping an arm around Elsie's shoulders. "He won't like that."

"I made you cry, too." Elsie reminds him. "So you shouldn't be in too much trouble."

Anna grins even as her chin wobbles. "Does this mean you've made up?"

Elsie and Thomas look at each other. "For now. At least until the next time I try Mum's patience," Thomas says.

"Oh thank God," the younger woman beams even as she starts crying. "I know you both had your rows when Thomas was a teenager, but this time was different-"

Elsie races forward to hug her and Thomas is right behind her. "Damnit, now I've made _you_ cry." He swears. "Edward'll want to divorce me by Tuesday."

Anna laughs through her tears and the three of them embrace.

"I put this burden on you too, and I'm sorry for it," Elsie whispers to her. "I never wanted to do that. To _either_ of you."

"You're already forgiven, didn't you know that?" Anna sniffs.

"I know it now." Elsie hugs her fiercely, and then she puts the rest of her bed back together with her children's help.

* * *

Boxes are still stacked in the hall, but the kitchen is put away and is put to good use by Edward. Later, the family sit around the table, over empty plates. Elsie sighs, massaging the back of her neck.

 _I'll sleep well tonight._

"Mum?" Anna asks, swallowing the last of her water. "Why do you think Charlie was on your mind while you were ill? After all this time? Do you think it's because Joe's gone?"

Elsie lets her eyes linger on her favorite picture, now hanging on the wall. The familiar painting of the black and white dog in the meadow steadies her.

"I don't know. Maybe. But to be honest…I don't think Charlie ever left my mind. Not really." She shifts on her chair, stretching her leg. "That sounds terrible, I know. I _was_ happy with Joe. I never would have agreed to marry him if I didn't love him."

"But you married him for our sake too." Thomas wipes his mouth with his napkin. "You wanted us to have a dad."

 _That's true._

"It's okay, Mum." Anna says quietly. "You were thinking of us. There's nothing wrong with _that_."

Elsie swallows. "I did love Joe. He was a good man."

"He was," Thomas agrees. "He and I never were close, but even I knew that. He was a good husband to you."

"The thing is," Elsie slides her tongue over her teeth. "What I felt for Charlie from the very beginning was…different. It was so much stronger than anything I'd felt before, and it-it scared me."

 _It still does._

"Mam brought me up to be independent. And I know that her life was always a cautionary tale to me." She continues. "In the back of my mind was always the _possibility_ that Joe might say our marriage was over. Like what happened to Mam when my father left. I don't think Joe would've ever done that – we both were committed to making things work - but a part of me always held back."

"Well, he did cheat on you when you were both at university," Edward says. "So that couldn't have helped."

"No, it didn't." Elsie says, straightforward. She's forgiven Joe for it, after letting go of her anger.

 _It took me years, but I finally did._

 _We can't change the past._

"Tell us more about Charlie. About how you felt about him." Anna says, her voice encouraging.

It's far harder for Elsie to put into words what she feels. It brings up everything that caused the row with Thomas, the emotions she can't control.

"I loved him from the start." She whispers, keeping her eyes on the edge of the table. "And I don't have any explanation _why_ …I didn't understand it then, and I don't, now. It…it felt like we belonged together, that we were meant for each other. I know that sounds mystical, like something in the universe drawing us together, but it's true." She looks up, sees them all listening intently. "But it wasn't just love. Or straight up lust, which was some of it, I won't deny it-"

"I'm living proof." Thomas murmurs under his breath, and Edward pats his knee.

"-but we were friends, too." Elsie says, thinking back to those hot nights in August. "I enjoyed just having him close, even if he was just sitting at the bar and I was busy behind it, I'd feel better with him nearby. Maybe I'm imagining things, but I think he felt the same way. When he left, even though I knew he would, I felt…lost."

"Are you angry with him?" Anna asks.

Her question yanks Elsie back into the present. "What? No, of course not." She frowns.

"I'm asking because _I_ was angry with my birth mum, for giving up her rights to me," her daughter says. "Only I didn't realize it. It took years with the counselor before I came to terms with it."

"This isn't like your situation, though," Thomas says. "Charlie never hurt Mum, or let anyone else hurt her."

"I know, but he did leave her." Anna turns back to Elsie. "After what you'd been through with your dad and even with Granddad Mac, I wouldn't be surprised if you were angry with Charlie. He was another man who'd abandoned you."

Shaking her head, Elsie pulls a string of hair out of her face. "That's not how I feel. It wasn't like that…we both were fully aware at the time that our time together was short-lived."

"And it would've been forgotten, if not for me." Thomas mutters. He stacks plates, carefully setting the forks and knives on top.

"This isn't all about you, dear," Edward says to him. "Mum, I hope we're not pushing you too much."

"You're not." She doesn't feel pushed, she feels released.

 _I've needed this._

"It's just hard for me to talk about it, because I _haven't_ talked about it." She goes on. "You know?"

"I do know, more than I can say. That sounds like something I heard in group therapy after coming back from Basra," her son-in-law says.

"Has everyone in this room gone through therapy?" Thomas asks, moving the plates from the table to the counter and setting them in the sink.

"Everyone except me." Elsie raises her eyebrows. "Maybe I need it."

Anna smiles. "Talking can be therapeutic. Tell us more."

Sitting back, Elsie holds out her glass for Thomas to refill, and takes a sip of water, thinking. "Charlie was like…no one I'd ever met before." _Or since._

"The first time I remember seeing him was outside the bar," she says. "He'd gone outside, to get away from the heat or the noise, or both, I expect. He was looking up at the stars…" Her voice trails off.

 _How can I explain him? How he affected me?_

 _Just talk, girl. They're listening._

"Most of the lads I knew up till then were only after women or booze, or in those days, the nearest high. Or if they were more responsible, like Joe, they didn't talk much about anything other than their jobs or what they were studying at university. Charlie looked like a man who thought about the world. Like someone who read Shakespeare, not simply to perform in one of the plays, but to learn the words, to _understand_ it. He quoted Samuel Johnson more than once…" she laughs. "I remember the time Jos, the cook, was trying to flirt with several girls at the bar. Charlie was sitting at the other end. Jos tried, but the girls wanted nothing to do with him. After Jos gave up and went back to the kitchen, Charlie muttered, 'He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.'"

Anna, Thomas and Edward laugh.

"The _things_ he'd say…he was something of a philosopher himself."

"What do you mean?" Thomas hiccups.

"Well, the first night we danced, he said something about life always being in flux…I didn't quite know what he meant," she says. "But it made me think. Up till then I'd always thought about life being a slog. Just something to get through. He seemed to think it was something to experience."

"Do you remember what he looked like?"

Elsie smiles at Thomas. "He had black hair. Like yours, but thicker, if I remember right. I do remember that he was curly-haired…some of it was forever sticking to his forehead. He stood and walked with good posture. He never slouched. It made him look taller, I think. And he was. Tall, I mean."

"Was he skinny? Or more muscular?" Edward asks.

"Rather broad in the shoulders." Elsie scratches her cheek, her heart speeding up.

 _Long legs and long arms, and big hands._

Grinning, Anna leans forward. "He sounds quite handsome. How good of a kisser was he?"

"Anna!" Thomas cries. Edward laughs.

"If he was a good kisser, my husband is a chip off the old block."

Elsie presses her finger against her bottom lip. "He was a good one. _Very_ good."

"You make that sound way more risqué than you mean. I hope." Thomas's face resembles a tomato.

"Oh, calm down," Anna lightly swats his shoulder. "She's talking about your _dad_. You should be happy she fancied him – and that he fancied her. He did fancy you, right?" Anna asks Elsie. "It wasn't a one-way street?"

"I think he fancied me, yes."

 _You_ _think_ _, girl?_

"Did he tell you he loved you? Before he left?" Anna asks.

Elsie is aware of the weight behind her question. She swallows, thinking of that moment in Charlie's arms.

 _She gasps for a breath, all damp hair and glistening skin. The man above her, within her, bends to kiss her mouth._

" _I love you." He murmurs sleepily._

"Not in words, no. But that is what I thought at the time." Elsie says, her voice even. She has told her children she loved Charlie. The moment he told her he loved _her_ seems far too intimate to share. And what good would it do to tell them of it? They would likely be angry with him, and she doesn't want that.

Especially if they find him.

"And you never saw him again after that." Thomas says.

She looks up at him. "No. I never saw him again. But once I thought I heard him."

" _Heard_ him? Where? When?"

Glancing at Anna, Elsie smiles. "Do you remember your first day at summer camp?"

A grin lights up her daughter's face. "Like it was yesterday. What, you thought you heard him at Rosewood? Ooh, tell us!"

* * *

 **A/N: Continue on to the next chapter…**


	11. It's Just The Radio

**A/N: GO BACK AND READ THE LAST CHAPTER, IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY. I'm posting this minutes after chapter ten.**

 **Continuing on, beginning with a loooooong flashback. I could've made it longer, believe me...**

 _ **July, 1995**_

"Morning, love."

Joe's raspy voice breaks through the darkness.

Elsie doesn't know what time it is, but she can feel it's past the time when her husband is usually out of bed. Especially in the summer.

But not today. Today is different.

 _My girl is going out into the world, on her own…_

"Are ye awake?" He asks.

"Mmm hmmm." She's slowly coming out of sleep, and she feels the mattress shift as Joe moves closer.

His thick arms pull her to him, her back to his front. His beard scratches the side of her face when he kisses her cheek. His warm skin is hot to her touch.

"Ach," Elsie whispers, fumbling for the edge of the sheet to throw it off. "Sleeping next to you is like cuddling a furnace."

He draws the sheet off her then tugs at her old t-shirt. "If you didn't wear this, you'd be cooler." He spoons up against her bum, his hands gliding across her abdomen to rest on her hips. He, as usual in summer, wears nothing in bed.

Despite her fatigue, she feels her own desire flicker. _It's been a while._

"When you told Roger we'd take their kids to camp today, and he and Tracy offered to watch the farm in exchange, is this what you had in mind to do, instead of your chores?" She asks, turning her head over her shoulder.

Joe kisses the back of her neck. "Maybe."

It isn't usual for him to initiate sex, and his growing desire is a shot to her ego. She isn't vain – with every passing year she's aware that she's approaching forty, and her added wrinkles and grey hairs bear it out – but it _is_ nice to be wanted. He gently squeezes her breasts through the thin fabric, his fingers squeezing her nipples. In moments she's gasping from the sensation.

"We…can't," she protests feebly, pushing her foot against his calf. "We'll wake the kids."

"We never have before. God, Els." He's panting with every word. "You say _I'm_ warm, but you…"

"I'm what?" She turns in his arms. The harsh outdoor light throws some light against his wrinkled face, weathered from the sun. Brushing the back of her fingers down his cheek, she kisses him lightly. "What am I?"

In answer, he kisses her back, his mouth hard against hers. "Hot," he breathes. He pulls back from her. "But if you want to go back to sleep…"

She's torn. It's rare that either of them get any extra sleep. On the other hand, it's even rarer that they have any alone time together when they're both awake.

 _I need this._

"Who needs sleep?" She grips his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin, as she kisses him.

Rolling onto her back, she works to get her shirt off with his help. Skin to skin, their kisses continue, though Elsie listens for any potential sound beyond the oscillating fan by the bedroom door. There is none.

Though the box spring groans with every movement they make.

He hovers over her, his breathing loud, and reaches down to join them. She arches her back, reaching back to grip the posts on the brass bed. "Please…" she whispers, hoping in that one word he'll understand.

 _Please let this be as good for me as it is for you._

Grunting, he thrusts once, twice. She lets out a small whimper, a prelude to a thunderstorm she's desperate to release.

And he thrusts again, letting out a loud gasp that she knows well. Bending over her, his lips finds hers.

"You didn't…" he mumbles. The hair on his chest is damp. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay." It really isn't, but there's no point to say anything else about it. As he lays back down beside her, she feels his seed leaking from her. His hand catches hers as she's trying to move, to get away from the wet patch underneath her.

"Love you."

"I love you." She hates how it feels automatic, like she's the ATM at the bank, spitting out what's expected of her.

 _I do love Joe. I just wish after almost seven years of marriage that our sex life was better._

 _Better for ME._

"We need more time alone. For us," Joe says. "I know it's hard during the summer, but maybe while Anna's away we can find some time."

"Maybe."

"I barely see you for months." He yawns, his fingers linked through hers.

"You can't help that. I knew what I was getting into, marrying a farmer," she says. She squeezes her thighs together.

A creak on the floorboard in the hall makes them both freeze. Light footsteps pad to the bathroom. They hear the groan of the faucet in the tub.

"Anna's up early. Especially for her." Joe whispers, then reaches across Elsie to look at the clock. "It's not even half past four."

Elsie isn't surprised. Her daughter begged to go to camp all through the spring, and has been anticipating this day for weeks.

 _I, on the other hand, had to be persuaded to let her go._

 _If Joe hadn't taken her side she wouldn't be going._

"She's excited," she says, trying to keep her voice light.

"And you're not." Joe shifts closer, his head close to hers.

She can't deny it. "I worry about her."

His beard tickles her shoulder. "You have to let her go sometime. She's fourteen now. She's not a wee girl anymore."

Nodding, Elsie feels tears pricking her eyes. Her heart is squeezed in her chest.

 _It is time._

* * *

Bacon sizzles on the stove. Elsie frowns, and moves the pan. "Damn, it's a bit singed," she sighs.

"I don't mind mine being a bit burned. It's fine," Joe grins, pulling plates out of the cabinet. She gives him a tight smile in return.

"You're kind."

"It smells good, Mum." Anna turns from the plate of toast on the counter, licking some jam off her pinky finger. "You didn't have to make all this. I'm only going to be gone for three weeks."

"Don't be silly. I wanted to make sure you were well fed before you left home." Elsie says, using the spatula to move the bacon onto a plate. She sets it on the table next to the plate of eggs.

Heavy footsteps make her look up. Thomas stumbles down the back stairs bleary-eyed, his wet hair dripping.

"Morning," he mutters, then pours himself a cup of coffee. He takes one sip, then looks bemusedly at the other three, who are all staring at him. "Looks like a lovely day out there."

"Good morning." Joe grunts, taking the toast plate from Anna. He sets it on the table and sits down. "A bit early for you to be up, isn't it?"

" _I'm_ glad you're up." Anna smiles at her brother.

"Thought I'd come along." Thomas says, setting his coffee cup across from Joe and pulling Anna's chair back for her. "See what's so exciting about this camp you and Gwen won't shut up about."

"Really? You're coming with us? I thought you were going to stay home today!" Anna cries, her face lighting up.

"I thought about it, but you're going to be gone for a while. It's going to be even _more_ boring around here without you." Thomas says.

"The Dawson kids'll be with us in the truck. It'll be crowded, at least on the way there." Joe reminds him.

"I don't mind if you don't." Thomas sits down at the table and takes another long sip of coffee, his eyes finding Elsie's over the rim. Daring her to speak.

 _You RASCAL_ , she blazes silently at him across the room. _After outright refusing to go, causing that row between us not two days ago, NOW you decide you've changed your mind?_

Part of her thinks he's done it just to spite her. She IS glad he's going for Anna's sake, but at the moment, she'd prefer to wring his neck. He is seventeen, stubborn as a mule, and often mercurial.

 _I know why._

Breakfast is eaten quickly, with not much conversation. By the time Tracy Dawson honks, coming down the lane, they're all outside. Joe sets Anna's bag in the bed of the truck.

"Hello!" Their flame-haired neighbor shuts off her truck and gets out. "All ready? Good. Tristan, here's your backpack, _don't lose it_ ," she warns her young son. "Megan, Gwen? Do you have your things?"

"Yes, Mum." Gwen rolls her eyes, wearing her backpack. She hugs her mother, then goes to greet Anna, and the two girls start talking right away.

"I have to go soon. Roger's down at the Campbell's, mowing, and I've got to take him more petrol." Tracy fans herself. "It's too hot for it, but he said if he didn't do it today, then he'd never get to it before September. By then, the grass would be taller than the house."

"He shouldn't feel like he needs to do it. It's not his responsibility…we live closer." Joe grunts, wiping the back of his forehead.

Tracy waves her hand. "You and Elsie've had enough to deal with. First, all the commotion last winter. Then the bank took the property and left it to rot." She lowers her voice, mindful of Megan and Tristan standing nearby. "Did you hear what happened to Coyle?"

Elsie nods. "Yes. Prison, and good riddance."

 _A drug-dealer and thief living just down the lane from us. I thought moving out of the city would mean not having to deal with such things._

 _I know better now._

"What happened to his girlfriend?" Tracy asks. "I only saw her a few times. She didn't seem his type at ALL."

Joe kicks at the tire on his truck. "Phyllis?" He glances at Elsie. "I didn't think she was his type either. But she was arrested this spring. Els saw her get taken away."

Tracy's eyes widen. "Christine Wigan told me she'd been arrested, but I didn't believe her. Phyllis _Baxter?_ Surely she didn't have anything to do with Coyle's…business."

"She must've had something to do with it, because she got sentenced last week." Elsie's heart sinks even thinking about it.

 _Five years in prison for theft. In her twenties, her life just starting. I thought she was different._

"She was innocent." Thomas snorts. The adults turn, having forgotten him standing there. "I mean yes, she was arrested, but anything she might've done, Coyle _made_ her do. She was under his thumb all right. He abused her, too," he whispers, glancing Anna and Gwen's way. The two friends giggle together, not paying attention to the others' conversation. "I saw the bruises myself. On her face, on her arms."

" _What?_ " Elsie gasps. "When did you see her like that? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

 _I suspected, but she hid it well. Even from me._

He shrugs. "It wasn't my secret to tell. I was taking a walk last winter a couple weeks before Coyle was arrested. She was down at the end of the lane near the road, crying. I called the anonymous hotline and told them about her, since she wouldn't do it herself. Hopefully she had the courage to tell her lawyer the truth. If so, maybe she won't have to serve all her time."

Elsie opens her mouth, but there is nothing to say to him. He did the right thing, she knows.

 _But why wouldn't he tell ME about Phyllis? Especially after what Anna had been through? I know we don't get on well, but surely…_

 _Well, he didn't tell you._

Every time she thinks her son has ceased to surprise her, he does it again.

"Well, for her sake I hope she won't have to. Megan? Tristan?" Tracy calls. Her younger children have already dropped their backpacks and are playing on the tire swing. "I have to go, and so do you."

She hugs the kids, and shakes Joe and Elsie's hands. "Thank you for taking them for us."

"Thank _you_ ," Joe says. "Thank Roger for us. We appreciate being able to take Anna ourselves…her first time, and all that."

"Sure." Tracy smiles in understanding at Elsie. "The time will fly by, I promise. If you ever want to drop by for a chat, please do."

"Thank you." Elsie feels a lump in throat as their neighbor drives off.

 _She understands._

She helps Joe put the other children's belongings in the truck and they all pile in. Thomas, Anna, Gwen and Megan are all wedged into the backseat. Thomas's knees are almost up to his ears, but for once he doesn't complain. Elsie helps Tristan buckle the middle seat belt in between her and Joe.

"All ready?" She says, in a voice she hopes won't crack.

"Ready!" The girls chorus together. Anna and Gwen dissolve into giggles again.

"Off we go." Joe says.

They roll down the long lane to the road. It's only a few minutes to the highway. They haven't driven for fifteen before Elsie's broken up two fights between Tristan and his sisters.

"Turn a _round_ and leave them alone." She orders the boy. "It's dangerous to be turned around like that while we're driving."

"You can't make me," he says, sticking out his chin. "You're not my mum."

"Shut UP, and don't be rude to Mrs. Hughes!" Yells Gwen from the back. "You'll catch it when you go home, Tris – I'll tell Dad!"

"I won't be home for two weeks." He half-sings at her. "He won't know-OW!"

Thomas leans back in his seat. "Keep your mouth shut, or I'll thump you again."

Tristan rubs the back of his head. "That hurt," he pouts.

"I don't feel sorry for you." Joe says, his eyes not leaving the road. "I want ten minutes of silence from _all_ of you. Understand?"

"Yes." The younger ones mumble.

Elsie looks in the side view mirror, and makes eye contact with Thomas. _Don't do that again,_ she mouths.

 _What?_ There's a little smile hovering on his lips. She glares at him, but says nothing. Joe's not used to driving on the highway, and she knows he needs quiet for a while. He's also not used to having a bunch of rambunctious children in the truck.

 _Neither am I._

"Mum?" Anna asks almost five minutes later, as they're getting off at an exit. "Can we listen to the radio?"

Joe and Elsie exchange glances, and he nods. "Fine," she says. "But _I'll_ decide what the station is," she reaches for the dial before Tristan can.

Static, boring voices discussing North Korea, then a vaguely familiar song.

"… _not a soul out there,_

 _No one to hear my prayer…_

 _Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight_

 _Won't somebody help me chase the shadows away?_

 _Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight_

 _Take me through the darkness, to the break of the day…"_

"What IS this?" Megan asks, clearly not impressed.

Joe laughs. "Disco. I haven't heard this song since uni." He glances at Elsie. "Have you?"

"It's been a long time." She agrees.

 _A very long time._

She liked it once. Now it's dragging her back into the past, into a place she's tried hard to forget. She shoves the memory of Rusty's aside.

"Isn't this ABBA?" Gwen asks. "Mum likes them. I think she's got some of their records."

"Yes. It's ABBA." Elsie tells her.

"I like it." Anna says.

"Me too," her friend says. "I mean, it's not Mariah Carey, but it's got a beat."

"… _I gaze into the night,_

 _But there's nothing there to see, no one in sight._

 _There's not a soul in sight,_

 _No one to hear my prayer…"_

Elsie looks out the window. She hasn't been up this way in the country at all. There's nothing but fields in either direction and no one in them – but the road is surprisingly crowded with traffic, all of it headed in the same direction.

She sneaks another glance at Thomas in the mirror. He too is looking out the window. She wonders what he's thinking, though the song lyrics make her heart ache for him. She wishes he would open up to her, but she knows she absolutely cannot _force_ him to tell her what she's almost certain is true.

 _You haven't been hanging around James Kent just because both of you like cricket._

The last thing she wants is for Thomas to be hurt. But the way things are going, she's afraid there's no other outcome.

"Gimme Gimme Gimme" ends, and another song begins.

This one, to Elsie's horror, is even more familiar.

" _The hardest thing I've ever done is keep believing_

 _There's someone in this crazy world for me_

 _The way that people come and go through temporary lives_

 _My chance could come, and I might not ever know-"_

"Ooh, I know who this is," Anna says. "Karen Carpenter. Right, Mum?"

Her throat's gone dry, and it has nothing to do with the air conditioner blasting from the vent. "Right."

" _I used to say no promises, let's keep it simple_

 _But freedom only helps you say goodbye_

 _It took a while for me to learn_

 _That nothin' comes for free_

 _The price I've paid is high enough for me."_

Elsie blinks, trying to focus on the road. On the car in front of them. On anything.

And yet in her vision is a parking lot outside a closed bar, and a tall man telling her he would come back.

She closes her eyes, swallowing hard.

" _I know I need to be love_

 _I know I've wasted too much time_

 _I know I ask perfection of a quite imperfect world_

 _And fool enough to think that's what I'll find."_

Tristan sighs beside her. "Coolio is way better. This is…boring."

"You WOULD think that." Gwen says.

"Her voice is beautiful." Anna leans forward. "Look – that sign says 'Rosewood, Five Miles'. We're almost there!"

Elsie shakes herself.

 _Right, get back into the moment. Not the long-vanished past. You can't change what happened, anyway._

The radio station switches to adverts, so she turns it off.

"At the rate we're going, it's going to take us the rest of the morning to get there," Thomas says.

He isn't wrong by much. The line of vehicles slows down as they approach what Elsie thinks is normally a lonely traffic light. While they wait, stopped at first in line, another long line of vehicles coming from the north turns onto their road. Elsie stops counting at thirty.

Another half an hour later and mile down the road, they follow the parade and turn right. Dust rises around the truck as they creep along the rock road.

"Just like at home," Joe murmurs. "If I was driving a Range Rover, I'd be worried about it getting dirty. Not this old thing." He taps the steering wheel fondly.

Gwen talks in a continuous stream after they pass beneath the _**Rosewood**_ sign.

"The first week, we'll hike through those woods. The second week, we'll camp overnight there. Usually it'll be on Friday night, unless they're predicting rain-"

Megan talks over her sister. "-see the trail over there? That's not for hiking, that's just for the horses-"

Tristan, not paying attention to any of them, hums under his breath.

Anna, Elsie notices, has gone quiet. She looks in the rearview mirror. Her daughter is sitting hunched between Thomas and Gwen, her blue eyes big.

"I…didn't know there would be so many people here," she says. "I thought there'd just be a few of us."

"There will be." Gwen gives her a reassuring smile. "There'll only be ten girls in our cabin. That's who we'll be with most of the time, except for meals. Even then we'll sit together. And I talked to Cassie two weeks ago, she's excited to see us.

Anna sits up. "I forgot Cassie would be there."

"Yeah. So there'll be you, me, Cassie, Cassie's friend Emma, and Emma's sister Amy, and Heather. There's only four people we don't know in our cabin, whichever one we get."

Elsie feels a rush of gratitude for Gwen.

 _She'll look after Anna. Thank God._

"The boys' camp is going on this week. Tristan will be across the lake. And _my_ camp is further down from yours. You won't see me until Saturday at the dance," Megan says. "It's just everybody getting here at once."

"You're not exaggerating when you say _everybody_ ," Joe says. They've come to a total stop in front of a line of buildings on their right. On their left is a huge field covered in cars and dust. Elsie can make out people crossing the dusty road several vehicles in front of them.

Joe looks in the rearview mirror. "Gwen, didn't you say you'd have to go the administration building first?"

Gwen unbuckles her seatbelt. "Yes. They'll have our cabin assignments there."

Joe puts the truck into park. "Els, take the kids and go. There's no point-"

"-in us sitting here. You park." She unbuckles her seatbelt and grabs Tristan's before he can swing it in a circle. Opening the side door, a blast of hot air and dust makes her cough. "C'mon, Tristan."

Thomas gets out of the back and pulls on his shirt. "Jesus Christ, it's hotter than hell."

"Don't swear," Elsie and Anna say together. Tristan giggles, but flinches when Thomas scowls at him.

"I'll find you," Joe calls after they've gotten everything out of the back. Elsie waves.

"Let's go." She holds onto Tristan's hand, making sure he's got his bag, and that the others are following behind.

To her great relief, Tristan's head counselor is in the administration building, and offers to take him to his side of the camp, along with several other boys. It's a long walk to Megan's cabin.

By the time Elsie, Gwen, Anna, and Thomas get to the older girls' cabin, they're all more than ready to get into the shade.

"I'll stay out here," Thomas says, seating himself on the porch railing. His shirt's clinging to his back, and there are dark sweat spots on it. "There's more of a breeze."

Inside, three girls are setting up their bunks with their parents.

"Hi!" Cassie flies across the room, almost bowling over Gwen. "You're _here_ , oh I wondered when you'd get here, didn't it take _forever_ to come down the road? That was awful! Anna, hi! It's _great_ to see you!"

"Hi," Anna smiles, relaxing.

Cassie introduces Anna to her friends, the sisters Emma and Amy. It turns out the girls are fraternal twins.

"How do you say your last name again?" Anna asks them. They answer at the same time.

"It's like the letters 'L' and 'C' put together-"

" _El-see_. Don't worry if you mispronounce it, everyone does-"

"There's not much chance of me getting that wrong." Anna laughs. "My mum's name is Elsie, E-L-S-I-E."

"Not many people call me that," Elsie tells the girls. "I'm Mrs. Hughes to most people."

"Not to me. You're Mum." Anna says with pride.

Elsie presses her lips together, trying not to cry. She overcomes it by pointing at the various bunk beds.

"You and Gwen tell me which one's yours, and let's get you settled."

She and Anna help Gwen make up the red-head's bed on a top bunk. They've just finished when the girls' friend Heather arrives. She brings a CD player/radio with her.

" _Yes_ ," Cassie jumps off her top bunk onto the floor. "I love 'Fantasy'…" She starts singing along with Mariah Carey.

"I want some water, do you?" Gwen asks Anna loudly, fanning herself. The room is stuffy, despite all the windows being open.

"Yes." Anna sighs. "Where can we get some?"

"Over at the dining hall. I'll show you. Mrs. Hughes, we'll bring you some too," Gwen says. "We'll be right back."

Elsie sets Anna's bag on the bottom bunk and gets her bedding out. She can't help but smile at the twins and Cassie, who are singing along with Mariah Carey with plenty of enthusiasm, if not success at imitating the singer's vocalizations.

She shares an amused smile with one of the girls' mothers. "Not your cuppa?" She asks the tall blond woman.

"No." The woman says, smiling. "I grew up listening to Bread and the Carpenters."

Elsie's heart skips. "Music's changed since the 70s."

"It certainly has."

Anna and Gwen come back in, drinking from water bottles. "Here's one for you," Anna gives it to Elsie.

She takes a long drink. "Oh, that's better. Thanks." She screws the cap back on, and unfolds the fitted sheet. "Is Thomas still on the porch?"

"Yes," Anna says over the music. "And he said he hasn't seen Joe. We didn't, either."

"He might still be in line waiting to park." Elsie shakes her head when Anna goes to grab the sheet. "No, I'll do it."

"Are you sure?" Anna's question is directed at her, but her attention is more with Gwen and the other girls, singing.

"Yes. It'll be easier with just one of us doing it. You go on." Elsie shoos her away and ducks under the top bunk to stretch the sheet beneath the corner of the mattress on Anna's bed. Tears prick her eyes.

 _I won't be able to do anything for you while you're away._

The song changes.

" _I ain't gonna cry, no_

 _And I won't beg you to stay_

 _If you're determined to leave, boy_

 _I will not stand in your way_

 _But inevitably you'll be back again_

' _Cause you know in your heart, babe_

 _Our love will never end, no no…"_

The words seem to linger around her, dancing in her memory.

 _Charlie left_ , she tells herself, smoothing down the sheet. _He left, and he never came back._

 _Nothing_ _in life is inevitable._

Over the music and the girls' singing, she hears a deeper tone nearby, a man's voice.

"Up there, Mary, that one's free."

Elsie moves to the far corner of Anna's bed, pulling on the stubborn sheet. She's forced to lay across the bed to reach the other side of the mattress, but it can't be helped.

The girls are singing louder.

" _I know that you'll be back, boy_

 _When your days and your nights get a little bit colder…_

 _I know that you'll be right back, baby_

 _Baby, believe me it's only a matter of time_

 _Of time…"_

"I'M TAKING THE GIRLS TO THE LAKE!" A deep bass voice bellows. "BE RIGHT BACK!"

His voice goes through Elsie with the force of an electric shock.

 _ **CHARLIE!?**_

She doesn't think, she doesn't question, she only feels. She leaps up, determined to see him-

 _CRACK._

Her head collides with the upper bunk. She's completely forgotten where she is.

For an instant, she sees stars.

It doesn't matter.

On instinct, she turns, twirls on the spot, her hand going to the back of her head without conscious thought, but she looks around wildly, wondering where he is, where _he_ is-

"Mrs. Hughes! Are you okay?" Gwen gasps, her eyes wide. "You hit your head!"

"'M fine," she mumbles, turning one way and then the next. There are more people inside, more parents and two other girls she hasn't seen. None of them matter. The two men she does see don't look familiar at all – and as both of them are talking, she can tell neither of them was the voice she heard.

Elsie stumbles to the door.

 _Maybe he was outside._

There's a cooler cross breeze on the porch. Running to the railing, Elsie looks out, and in both directions. There are people milling about on the trail, going in and out of the cabins. She doesn't see a tall broad man anywhere.

' _Girls', he said. Taking them to the lake._

Someone grabs her arm, spinning her around. It's Thomas.

"Jesus Christ, Mum, you're bleeding."

"Bleeding?" She asks, still looking for the man who sounded like Charlie, but her heart sinks with every passing moment.

 _Maybe I was wrong. How do I_ _know_ _that I still remember what he sounded like? That was almost eighteen years ago!_

"Yes, Mum, bleeding." Thomas's voice holds a rare note of concern, interrupting her thoughts of the long-vanished man. "It's dripping onto the back of your shirt-"

He pulls her hand away from the back of her head and replaces it with his own. To her horror, there's a patch of dark red blood smeared across her fingers. Simultaneously, she feels a searing pain beneath Thomas's hand, along with the unmistakable sensation of something wet dripping down her neck. She knows it's not sweat.

" _Shit_." She grunts out. "It's on my shirt? Shit!"

Anna appears at her side and grabs her arm. "Mum, are you okay?"

"I'll find the nurse." Gwen scampers past them down the porch steps. "Cassie said she saw her going to a cabin close by."

"Sit down on the railing there." Thomas guides Elsie over to it. "Anna, stay on her other side. We don't want her passing out."

"I'm not going to pass out! I just hit my head." Elsie protests to her children.

"Right, and your head isn't important or anything." Thomas rolls his eyes.

Elsie glares up at him as she sits on the railing, ignoring the throbbing from the back of her head. "It isn't that bad…head wounds bleed more. I've told you that a hundred times."

"What happened?" Anna asks her, worried. "I wasn't looking, but I heard Gwen gasp and I saw you fly out the door. Did you see a spider or something?"

Laughing, Elsie shakes her head slightly. "No. A spider wouldn't frighten me. It's nothing like that. I just…felt claustrophobic all of a sudden, and needed to get out. I misjudged how low the upper bunk was. Silly me."

She doesn't like lying to them, but there is no way she can tell them the truth.

 _Better to pass it off as a mistake._

Gwen returns several minutes later with the camp nurse. The grey-haired woman insists on taking Elsie to the first aid clinic.

"I just want to check that cut, and make sure you won't need stitches. It'll only take a moment to patch you up." The nurse says, gently taking Elsie's arm from Anna.

"Fine," Elsie says, sighing. She turns to Thomas and Anna. "You two, stay here. Joe will probably be here any minute now. I'll be right back."

Her eyes flit through the crowd as they walk to the clinic, which is in the same building as the dining hall. Nowhere does she see anyone who looks like Charlie.

 _I've likely forgotten what he looks like…I could walk right by him, and not know it._

 _You ARE silly._

"I'm sorry I'm such a bother." She tells the nurse. "You must have much more important things to do than tend to an empty-headed woman."

As the shock wears off, her embarrassment grows.

"You're no bother. My job is to look after anyone who needs medical attention here – adult or child." The nurse smiles.

The clinic is not much bigger than a large van. The nurse leaves the door to the outside slightly open, so as to let air through. There's another open door, cracked open that leads into the dining hall. Elsie hears girls giggling as they fight with the stubborn vending machines.

"Are there stains on my shirt?" She asks the nurse as the woman snaps on a pair of latex gloves. "My son said I was bleeding onto it."

"There are, I'm afraid. You can probably get them out – I've seen worse."

 _I'm sure you have._

"If you like, I'll give you one of the counselor shirts." The nurse carefully examines the back of Elsie's head.

"Thank you. Ooh." Elsie lets out a sigh that ends in a wince.

"Sorry," the nurse says. "You've got the beginning of a nice welt here." She puts a bandage on the cut, then holds an ice pack over the spot. After Elsie changes into the shirt she gives her, the nurse cleans off the back of her neck.

"Crusted blood is the worst," she comments. "I don't want you to have to scrub this off when you get home." The sponge she uses feels cool to Elsie.

"I don't either. I appreciate you helping me." Elsie says.

"Like I said, it's no bother. That's the last of the blood. See, we got you cleaned up in no time." The nurse steps back and throws away the sponge, stripping off her gloves next. "Ring Emergency straightaway if you've got any symptoms of concussion, though I highly doubt you've hit your head hard enough for that. You shouldn't need stitches, I don't think."

"Thank God for that!" Elsie laughs, her face flaming. "Thank _you_. No harm done then, except to my pride."

She slides off the table and shakes the nurse's hand, then goes out again into the blazing sunshine and crowded trails.

Anna, Thomas, Gwen and Joe are waiting for her on the porch of Anna's cabin. Joe comes down the stairs when he sees her wave.

"Els!" He grabs her shoulders, brushes his fingers across her face. "God, are you all right? Anna said you'd hit your head-"

"I'm fine Joe, really." She pulls his hand gently away from her cheek. It's not often she's seen him rattled, and it makes her feel guilty.

 _All because I THOUGHT I heard…well, someone else._

"The nurse put a bandage on, and cleaned me off. She gave me another shirt to wear as well." Elsie holds up her crumbled shirt. "I'll have to soak it when we get home…"

"Never mind your shirt." He waves it off. "Are you sure you're all right? I can't remember the last time you got a splinter, much less bashed your head."

"I am perfectly fine." She fixes her gaze on his right ear. "Like I told the children, I suddenly got claustrophobic, and forgot about the top bunk. It was just a silly moment." She smiles and looks him in the eye, and Joe gives her a tentative smile back. "I'm allowed to have an odd moment here and there, aren't I?"

His shoulders go down as he relaxes. "Aye, you are."

They tell Gwen goodbye. Anna walks back with them to the far side of the field to the truck.

"I drove around for ages to find an open spot," Joe says. He smiles as Anna hugs him. "But it was worth it to bring you here, sweetpea."

"Thanks." Anna hugs Thomas, then Elsie.

"Have a _good_ time." The lump in Elsie's throat is so thick she can only just speak through it. She kisses Anna's cheek. "Enjoy your time here, and don't think about us too much."

Anna leans back, her eyes watery. "I-I'll miss you. All of you."

Joe clears his throat. Thomas's mouth curves down, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. "Gwen told me there'll be a dance with the boys from the other camp next week," he says loudly. "If they even _look_ at you, I'll come up here and lock them into a shed. And throw the key into the lake."

"I'll set the bloody shed on fire." Joe growls.

"You _two_!" Elsie shakes her head. But she feels her heart lift a little.

 _They both care about Anna._

 _As much as I do._

Anna laughs. "Gwen and the other girls will look after me. But I'll ring you if anything happens."

"Ring us whenever you can, and let us know how you're doing." Elsie says. "Or else I'll worry."

"We can't have that. I'll be fine, Mum." Anna grins and hugs her again. " _You_ take care of yourself, too."

The truck seems empty with only three people in it. Thomas is silent, stretching his legs across the backseat. Joe is equally silent.

Elsie stares out of the window, sniffing. Though as they turn from the rock road to go back to the highway, it isn't only her daughter occupying her thoughts.

 _Is it possible?_

 _Could Charlie have been here?_

* * *

 _ **April, 2018**_

"So that's why you hit your head. Because you thought you heard Charlie?" Thomas asks, frowning.

"Yes." Elsie watches him warily. Anna's lost in thought, and Edward leans over to pet Blackjack.

"You said you'd felt claustrophobic…I thought that was strange, since you'd never acted that way before." Thomas sighs. "I guess you didn't want to tell me the truth then-"

"Because I wasn't sure if I _had_ heard him." Elsie's heart pounds. "I never saw him, or anyone who looked familiar. Without that, I didn't see the point in bringing him up. And I also didn't tell you because I didn't want to make a scene with Joe there."

"Did you tell him the truth? Later, I mean?"

"Yes." She looks Thomas in the eye, and prays he doesn't ask for details.

 _That IS the truth. I should tell him about what happened several months after that summer…the part that concerns him._

 _The rest was between me and Joe._

"I don't remember anyone with a booming voice." Anna pulls her foot up, resting her chin on her knee. "I remember singing along with Gwen and Heather to Mariah Carey one minute, and the next, seeing you bleeding on the porch."

"Mum, what made you think it _was_ Charlie?" Edward asks. "Like you said, it'd been years."

Sighing, Elsie leans back in her chair. "I don't know. Honestly, at the time, I didn't think at all…it was more of an instinct. A feeling. I heard a voice and all I wanted to do was see if it was him."

Like most of her memories of Charlie, she can't adequately explain her actions.

 _I wish I could._

 _Yes, I loved him. And he loved me._

 _He said he did._

She has never been a firm believer in soul mates, love-at-first-sight, or things of that sort. What has shaken her is knowing that something happened between her and Charlie that she can't explain.

"Well." Thomas clears his throat. "Whether he was at Rosewood or not, I _have_ been searching for him. Mostly online."

"You have?" Elsie cries. "And – have you found anything?"

He shakes his head. "No, but it's not for lack of trying. I even contacted the historical society near _The Hound_ , hoping they'd know something."

"They've got a lot of records and memorabilia from the early 20th century to the '40s." Anna explains. "But after vaudeville went out, the theatre was used mostly for showing movies. By the '70s it was barely doing anything else. And the owner then kept _abysmal_ records – apparently in late 1977 he was arrested for tax fraud and the property was taken away from him."

"That doesn't surprise me." Elsie's heart sinks. _Another dead end._ She recalls the few times she'd gone into the old building, remembering the holes in the cushioned seats and moldy smell in the air.

"The only thing I have found was that the theatre's having a grand re-opening in a couple weeks. The historical society will have a booth in the lobby." Thomas says. "The new restaurant that used to be Rusty's is opening that same weekend, too."

"I told Thomas and Anna we need to go there for brunch. The new chef there is a friend of my friend Craig," Edward pipes up. "I need to get a feel for any competition."

"This is a couple of weeks from now?" Elsie asks. She wants to go, but doesn't feel ready.

 _So soon?_

' _Soon' is relative, girl. It's been forty years since you've been there._

Edward nods. "Would you like to go with us? It's been ages since we've all gone somewhere for brunch together."

"Don't you have to work on Saturday mornings?" Elsie raises an eyebrow, though she knows Edward can't see it. He'll hear it in her voice.

And he does. "Not that day." He cocks his own eyebrow, his face turned in her direction.

"This isn't about brunch." She says toward Thomas and Anna.

"About two percent of it is." Her son replies. "The rest is about possibly getting answers."

"Your own searches haven't turned up much. If the historical society wasn't able to help you, it doesn't sound likely that we'll find anything further if we're there in person, does it?" Elsie does not like to be negative, but she also wants to be reasonable.

 _I never expected any of us to search for half an hour and find Charlie._

"Maybe not." Anna says. "But what's the worst that can happen? That we'll have a terrible brunch? The world won't collapse if that's the case."

"My world will. Don't you know how _important_ it is for me to have a decent brunch?" Thomas asks his sister. He fights a smile for a moment, but starts laughing the second she does.

"Terrible eggs Benedict and watery mimosa is a hanging offense," Edward laughs. "What do you say, Mum? Will you come with us?"

Despite her qualms, she will.

* * *

 **A/N: Songs – "Gimme Gimme Gimme" by ABBA, "I Know I Need To Be In Love" by the Carpenters and "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey**

 **Mister is out of town this week. I'm going to do my utmost to get out the next chapter as soon as possible!**


	12. Said You'd Be Coming Back This Way Again

" _What if I'd never run into you?_

 _What if you'd never smiled at me?_

 _What if I hadn't noticed you too_

 _And you'd never showed up where I happened to be?_

 _What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?_

 _On a quiet night, what are the odds?_

 _What's a guy like me doing in a place like this?_

 _I could have just walked by, who would have thought?_

… _what are the chances?"_

 _-"Chances", by the Backstreet Boys_

 _ **May, 2018**_

Mary leans forward in her seat and turns on the air conditioner. "You don't mind, do you?" She glances at Matthew, who's driving.

"Not at all. It's warmer than I thought it would be." The blond man looks in the rearview mirror at Charles. "Tell us if you get cold, Carson."

"There's little chance of that. It's humid." Charles says. The sound of air rushing through the vent fills the younger Crawleys' Range Rover.

"True. We might get a storm later on." Matthew whistles under his breath.

Sitting back against his seat, Charles sighs and pulls on his open-collared shirt. He's very glad Mary turned on the air – he has already felt in danger of sweating out of sheer nerves, never mind a heat wave.

 _I shouldn't have worn a blazer._

 _Why ARE you nervous? You know you might not find any other information about Els._

 _It's_ _finding_ _something that makes you nervous…_

 _One step at a time._

Matthew and Mary graciously offered to give him a ride to the re-opening at The Hound. He was glad they did – he knows it is for moral support, even more than to help him in his search for Els.

"Is Mr. Gregson meeting us there?" He asks. "Or did he go up earlier this morning, to get in more research?"

Mary turns around. "He's meeting us there. _Somehow_ Edith convinced him to ride up with her – even though she's also giving Tom and Sybbie a ride. She must be trying to kill her relationship with him before it starts."

"I doubt having Tom and Sybbie in the car would harm it." Matthew says. "Tom's been wanting to get to know Michael better. And he's been around kids before. He showed me pictures of his cousin's children when he and I went fishing back in March."

"Yes, but this is Edith we're talking about." Charles hears the clear skepticism in Mary's voice. "You don't think she's pushing too hard? She doesn't know anything about _keeping_ a relationship. I'm stunned she's lasted this long."

"She obviously knows something. You don't give her enough credit…I don't think she's pushing too hard, and I don't think Michael thinks that, either. They both seem happy. You will be nice to him – and Edith - when we get there, won't you? For my sake, if not for your sister?" Matthew says to her.

"Or for mine?" Charles smiles. Mary turns her head, smiling.

"Asking me to be nice to Edith is asking for the impossible. But I promise I'll behave myself. For both your sakes."

"I didn't know Mr. Branson was bringing the baby. I haven't seen her since Easter," Charles says. "It'll be nice to see her for longer than half an hour." He watches the scenery outside flash past. They've left the outskirts of the city a while back, replaced by budding trees and farmers in the fields.

"She was getting over a cold then. I'm sure Tom will try to have her sleep in the car, so she won't be fussy later. There's all sorts of activities going on there, even for tiny children." Mary looks at her phone. "A merry-go-round and bounce house across the road from the restaurant, face painting…"

"Across the road?" Turning from the window, Charles frowns. "There was a motel across from the theater and Rusty's. That's where I stayed, while I was there."

"The website says there's a park across the road." Mary shrugs. "It doesn't say anything about a motel."

 _Soon enough we'll see._

Charles recognizes houses leading to the theater. Some are still weather-beaten, if cleaned-up. He even recognizes a big warehouse that he vaguely remembers from the '70s. He thinks the building was associated with the long-gone factory; now he assumes it's been converted to some other use. Signs along the road point ahead, with slogans saying 'GRAND RE-OPENING' in colorful letters.

When Matthew reaches the intersection where Rusty's and _The_ _Hound_ are, Charles lets out a gasp.

"What on earth…" he mutters, his voice trailing off.

Both buildings are to their right. They look brand new, Rusty's in particular. A handsome sign on its new brick exterior reads _PINT & PLATE_. The brick matches that of the newly opened theater. Along with its companion, the building Charles had known as The Houndalso has a new name.

 _THE DOWNTON_ , it proclaims.

Gone is the derelict air and the faded posters from the theater's front windows, from when he remembers from the last time he was there. People mill about beneath the gleaming marquee, spilling out from the theater entrance, coming and going from the restaurant on the same side of the road. There is a line out of the door of the eatery.

"Good thing we didn't plan on having brunch." Matthew says, turning the steering wheel to make a left into a large car park across from the two renovated buildings. Next to the car park is an open area with grass, newly-planted trees, and footpaths, where people meander with their children and pets. A bounce house is set up in one corner. A merry-go-round is on another corner. It looks like someone's selling or giving out balloons; a stray blue one rises into the sky, flitting over The Downton.

"The motel used to be over there." Charles taps on the window as Matthew drives into the car park. "I wonder when it was torn down."

There's no visible sign that a building was ever there. That there was a room where he made love to a woman years before, and said goodbye to her the next day before really saying hello.

He feels unsteady as they find a spot and get out of the car. It all looks so different.

 _It's totally changed._

 _I'VE changed._

A familiar figure pushing a baby stroller approaches them. "There you are!" Tom grins. "You made it!" Sybbie babbles, a red heart painted on each of her soft cheeks.

Matthew claps Tom on the shoulder, and Mary reaches down and lifts Sybbie out of the stroller. "Good morning, darling," she says in a voice that reminds Charles of how she used to speak to Sybil. His heart aches, even as he smiles at aunt and niece.

 _Mary loved Sybil. It's no surprise that she dotes on Sybbie._

Matthew texts Edith, and they cross the road to meet her in front of The Downton.

"The restaurant's far busier than I expected," Edith says, giving Charles a quick hug. "It took me ages just to track down the manager. He was friendly, but there wasn't much he could tell me that we didn't already know. I think he was relieved that I wasn't demanding a table. As fast as they're doing service, more people keep coming in. Actually, Mary, I thought I saw Anna and her brother in there. They were looking at one of the pictures in the front-"

Even as she speaks, the doors to the theater open and more people come out, streaming beneath the marquee and flowing around them.

"Anna? She's with Thomas and Edward, like every Saturday morning. They'd go to Chouteau for brunch, not somewhere else." Mary says, Sybbie on her hip. "Let's move. We're in the way."

 _God, I hope Anna's not here_ , Charles thinks, feeling his pulse quicken. _This is awkward enough without other people knowing about my past._

Michael Gregson stands next to the historical society's booth in the grand theater foyer. "Hello, Carson," he says, shaking his hand. "Edith told me that you'd be here as well. You're interested in possibly having your firm be a patron here?"

"Yes." Charles clears his throat. It's the excuse he'd thought of when he knew Mr. Gregson would be there. "In the past, we've supported various causes, including the arts. When Edith told me about the re-opening, I thought it would be worth coming to see the theater for myself."

 _At least all of that is actually true._

The foyer, like the exterior of the building, is total unrecognizable from what he remembers. Everything looks new, from the elaborate ceiling to the intricate, carpeted floor. The light fixtures look vintage, but spotless. Music plays over a sound system. At the moment, it's Billie Holiday's "I'll Be Seeing You"*.

"Well, the owner, Mr. Bryant, is very ambitious with his plans for it." Michael says. "He's not…the most pleasant man, but he would be pleased to have another patron. I think he'd approve of your attire." He nods to a corner, where a burly man is speaking with a couple other visitors. He has a handlebar mustache, and is dressed in a dark blue suit and a silver tie that Charles can tell is silk.

"He looks like he'd kick me out for wearing cargo pants and a t-shirt," Tom comments.

"Not today, I don't think," Mary says drily. She hands Sybbie to Matthew, who's reaching for the little girl. "Today anyone can come in, no matter how they're dressed. Come on," she says to Matthew. "Let's go explore."

"Have you had a chance to look around yet?" Edith asks Michael, who's looking toward the doors leading into the theater itself.

"I haven't. Did you have any luck at the restaurant?"

"Unfortunately, no." Edith gives the editor a half-smile. "I need to talk to Betty here. I think she's the person to talk to about patronages too, Carson," she says to Charles, then turns back to her boyfriend. "You go on with the others, Michael."

He looks guilty. "You don't mind? I can wait for you."

"I don't mind at all." Edith points to Tom, who's checking Sybbie's stroller at the coat check. "You know how I am, I could be chatting for another half an hour with Betty."

 _Smooth_ , Charles thinks as Michael joins Tom. Mary, Matthew and Sybbie have already disappeared into the theater.

"Thank you." He says quietly to Edith.

"You're welcome." She smiles. "Now, let's see if we can find out anything more about Els."

Betty, the white-haired woman at the historical society booth, is very helpful.

"There were some old records from Rusty's. I found some notes after our conversation," she says to Edith. "Rusty wrote them – it looks like he was writing out a rudimentary schedule for June and July, 1977." She passes a file folder to Charles.

"That's the time period we're looking for." He says, pulling his glasses out of his front pocket and putting them on. The calendar pages are yellowed with age, and stained with what he hopes is grease.

He sees names of waitresses. Tammy, Miranda, Cathy, Sue, Robin…and Els. Brushing his thumb over her name, it feels as though fireworks are popping in his belly.

 _She WAS here. She WAS._

Her name appears more frequently on July's page, which does not surprise him, as he recalls that she was a university student. She would have worked more that month. He flips over the page, but there's nothing but more semi-legible scrawl that looks like a partial list of inventory.

"We've got pictures from Rusty's, too. We have far more of the theater, of course," Betty tells them. "But after talking to Edith, I dug this out for you, Mr. Carson." She reaches into a large plastic tub beneath the table and lifts out an old photo album. "Did you live here once? I've had a lot of folks come for the re-opening today who did. You look familiar."

Charles slides the file folder with the notes back across to her. "No, I never lived here. Just passed through." He picks up the photo album, his heart beating fast. "Are all these from Rusty's?"

He doesn't really want to divulge his past; it hardly matters why _he_ was there.

Betty nods. "They're in chronological order, from back in the '20s at the front of the album up through to the '80s. So I'd look near the end of it, to find your friend. We have an index, so just in case she's in a picture without a caption, I can look for it later. The good thing about the pictures you're looking for being later on, is that it's more likely we'll have names for the people in them." The old woman shakes her head when Edith explains about talking to the manager at the new restaurant. "Mark wouldn't know about Rusty's history – he moved here fifteen years ago, and the bar was closed long before that. They've put up old pictures over there, too. If you don't find what you're looking for here, you might try there."

"I did look there, but of course I don't know what she looked like," Edith says. "Carson, I'm willing to go back over there with you if we're not successful here."

"Surely there'll be something in here." Charles taps the heavy album. "But let's find out."

He sits on a cushioned bench next to the booth, Edith next to him. They flip through the back half of the album, from the '50s on. His heart skips every time he turns a page. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flash of the morning sun as the doors open and close. The foyer is loud, with people going in and out, but he pays the dull roar no mind.

Some of the pictures have captions, but others don't. Charles gasps when he sees an uncaptioned black and white picture from the early 1970s.

"That's Rusty," he murmurs, pointing at the man pouring a pint. It amazes him that he can remember what Rusty looked like. He gets a bigger shock two pages later. "That's Grigg. My business partner in those days." Grigg is seated at Rusty's bar, holding up a beer, with several women around him. None of them are Els. Or Alice.

"Really?" Edith leans over to get a better look at Grigg. "He was quite the ladies' man."

"Yes." Charles flips the page again, scanning the faces in the pictures.

 _Where is Els…where IS she…_

"What was your business with Grigg?" Edith asks.

"Oh…" Charles stutters. He knows he can probably trust the middle Crawley daughter to keep his past to herself, but he still isn't comfortable sharing it with her. "…oh…we were…door-to-door salesmen. Selling everything from vacuums to other household items. I don't know why I thought it was a good idea. We were long past the days of door-to-door salesmen even then. But he talked me into it somehow."

 _He talked me into joining his act. To make us a duo._

 _I wanted to do something different, to not live my father's life._

Edith nods. "But it didn't work out, so after a while you went home and worked with your father selling real estate until he died. Granny told me you did some consulting work after that, until Uncle Marmaduke hired you."

"That's right." Charles swallows hard, thinking of his father. Of his father's secretary Sadie and her husband Harry, and of Violet Crawley who found him at the men's homeless shelter.

 _She's never told anyone where I was._

They flip through a couple more pages, Charles's heart beating harder as they near the end of the photo album. He sees Miranda in a couple pictures, and makes a mental note to ask Betty if he can have copies of them, to give to Julie.

"She's pretty," Edith says when he points her out. "Carson, are you _sure_ Els isn't in any of these pictures? If Miranda is, there's a good chance that one of the other women is her-"

"They aren't." Charles sighs as he flips to the last page. There's only four pictures there, all of them of Rusty's last open night. "I admit, Julie showed me some pictures of Miranda as a younger woman, so I had something to jog my memory there. But I remembered Rusty straight off, and I hadn't seen him in forty years."

 _And he didn't_ _mean_ _anything to me._

 _Memories are funny things._

They've seen more pictures with the old owner after the first one, some with captions, so Charles knows he was right. He flips through the entire album again.

Els doesn't appear in any of the pictures.

Charles closes the album, his heart heavier than he can remember. "She's not in there."

"I'm not giving up." Edith stands up. "We'll keep looking."

"Yes." Charles says, his voice dull. He follows her back to the booth. "But for now, I think I'll look around the theater."

Handing Betty the photo album, Charles thanks her and asks her for copies of the pictures of Miranda, and for information about become a patron of the theater. She gives him a brochure, but he doesn't look at it.

He walks toward the theater doors and goes up the stairs to the mezzanine floor, stopping to look at more old photographs that are displayed on the walls. He knows he's being silly – a picture of Els wouldn't be in here, after all.

 _I_ _worked here. She worked at Rusty's._

 _It would make sense to search there._

His heart doesn't feel up to it – fighting more crowds, searching for a face he hasn't seen since he was young.

 _What now?_

* * *

" _What if I hadn't asked for your name?_

 _And time hadn't stopped when you said it to me?_

 _Of all of the plans that I could have made_

 _Of all of the nights I couldn't sleep…_

 _Is it love, is it fate?_

 _Who am I, who's to say?_

 _Don't know exactly what it means_

 _Is it love, is it fate?_

 _Where it leads, who can say?_

 _Maybe you and I were meant to be_

 _What are the chances..."_

"Doing all right?" Edward asks Thomas. "Try to relax."

From behind the wheel, Thomas lets out a breath. "Someday I'll figure out how you know I'm tense when I'm not saying a word."

"Because he knows you so well," Anna says from the back seat. She pets Blackjack, strapped into a dog car seat*.

Elsie stares out the window next to her, watching the fields fly past. She flinches when Anna touches her hand.

"Sorry." She mumbles. "I'm off with the fairies."

Anna squeezes her hand. "You're tense, too."

"Do you blame me for that?" Elsie sighs, pulling a strand of hair away from her face. "I haven't been up here in decades…since Thomas was tiny, and we were living with the Molesleys. Do you remember that day?" She asks Thomas.

"Vaguely." He looks in the rearview mirror, his grey eyes meeting hers. "Was it raining? I remember pressing my nose against the bus window, and the glass fogging up."

"It _was_ raining. Quite hard." She nods. "You slept most of the way home, and so did I."

It had been a futile trip, one that she'd been almost certain would be doomed to failure before they left the city. She had thought she'd seen Charlie in the city a few months after Thomas's second birthday. On a cold Sunday in October, she and Thomas had taken the bus to the little town where she had once lived and worked.

The Hound had been closed, along with the equally deserted Rusty's. The motel was still open, but so grungy looking that Elsie hadn't felt comfortable going in. She and Thomas had ended up at a little store with dirty floors, stuck inside waiting for the next bus while the rain had poured down.

For years afterwards she'd wondered why she had bothered going back. What had she thought would have happened? That Charlie would have come back too, and that they'd meet again at Rusty's?

 _It was a dream then, and I knew it._

 _How do I know that we'll find anything about Charlie today?_

 _I don't._

Today, on her way back up the once-familiar road with her children, her nerves are in danger of overtaking her. She is keenly aware of why.

 _Four decades on…and all this time I've wondered. What happened to him, where he went – never mind what his name was!_

 _We might actually find something today. I might get closure._

She isn't sure what she'll do if that happens, after wondering for so long. But she also knows the chances of finding some solid pieces of information aren't high. So she's trying to temper her expectations.

 _Steady, girl. That means you_ _have_ _expectations._

 _What DO I expect?_

 _I don't know._

 _For Thomas's sake, I hope we can find out Charlie's full name. Maybe find a few more details about his time there. If we can find_ _that_ _much…_

Anna is optimistic that someone from the historical society can help them. Elsie has gone along with her daughter's mood, not wanting to put a damper on things.

She's seen the doubt in Thomas's eyes, but he too has kept most of his thoughts to himself around his sister.

"John said he'd meet us there at ten." Anna says. "If he gets there before us he'll reserve a table. I don't know how many people will be there, but it's the grand opening and they've been advertising it for weeks."

"That's kind of him." Elsie murmurs, fanning herself as Thomas turns up the air-conditioning.

 _I'll have to leave my cardigan in here, and not take it inside. It's warmer than I thought._

It feels funny to her thinking of Rusty's as anything other than – well, Rusty's.

Soon enough she gets her first look at the once-familiar building. It makes her gasp.

"What on earth…" she mutters.

She stares at the gleaming _Pint & Plate_, its tidy brick exterior, and at the newly planted flowerbeds brightening the street.

The Hound _–_ or rather, _The Downton_ , looks as much changed as its neighbor.

Thomas parks the car across the street in the nearly-full car park. They all get out, Elsie still looking at both the renovated theater and the restaurant. She tears her gaze away to look at the open grassy area. Several children jump in a bounce house, shouting. Others ride the merry-go-round. A couple is face painting two little girls.

As nice as it all is, Elsie feels like she's missed a step walking down stairs. There is no hint that a motel was ever there. That she made love to a man in a long-vanished room, or that she loved him without telling him so.

It all looks so different.

 _It's totally changed._

 _I'VE changed._

They walk over to Pint & Plate, and find John Bates waving at them from a table near a window. Elsie feels a bit guilty walking past the crowded bench at the front, where people are waiting.

"Have you been here long?" Anna asks John after giving him a hug and (what Elsie thinks is) a chaste kiss.

"About ten minutes." He holds out Elsie's chair for her too, while Thomas gets Edward settled, Blackjack next to them. "Edward, I did mention your name. The hostess asked how I'd found out about the place. Obviously your reputation precedes you…I think she put me at the front of the line after that."

"You shouldn't have let her." Edward shakes his head. "I don't mind waiting my turn."

"You deserve to go to the front of the line more often," Thomas puts his arm around his man.

Smiling, Anna raises her eyebrows. " _You_ don't mind getting special attention, either."

They're greeted by an enthusiastic waiter named Sawyer, who hands out menus and takes drink orders. While the others study the menus, Elsie studies the interior of Pint & Plate.

Other than the general shape of the room, there is nothing left of Rusty's, except a bar that's in roughly the same location as the old one. Even it is unrecognizable. Gone are the grease stains and the cheap wood paneling. The bar's dark wood gleams, spotless. Instead of filling beer mugs out of the taps, staff mix mimosas and Bloody Marys.

 _They all look so young._

 _I was young, once._

The walls are exposed brick, and the floor is refurbished hardwood. Pictures hang in several places, black and white moments in time. The one nearest their table looks like it was taken in the '50s.

Elsie turns more to the left. About fifteen feet away, she sees a silver-haired woman wearing a pale blue sleeveless sundress. She opens her mouth, wondering why the woman's staring at her – then she sees Anna sitting on the woman's other side.

 _She's ME._

Her face flushes, and she pulls her case out of her purse and puts her glasses on to read her menu. After her illness, she didn't bother getting highlights in her hair again. Her reflection is still something of a shock. Even to her.

They order quickly when Sawyer comes back with their drinks. "Mmm, the spinach frittata." Anna sips her coffee. "Good choice, Mum. I should've ordered that instead of banana pancakes!"

"I'll save a few bites for you if you save a few for me." Elsie smiles. "Sawyer said the portions are quite big. I might be taking food home."

Thomas turns to look at the old picture Elsie had seen. "There are old pictures all over the walls. Mum, d'you think you might be in one?"

"Maybe." Elsie sighs. "If I am, I don't know that I would recognize myself. There's a mirror over there, but I thought someone was staring at me – and then I saw it _was_ me. I'm getting on...silver hair, and more wrinkles appearing every day."

She isn't vain, but it is sobering to see how much her appearance has altered, especially in the last few years.

Anna squeezes her arm. "If I look half as good as you when I'm sixty, I'll be overjoyed."

"Thank you. You really are sweet." Giving her a hug, Elsie feels gratitude for the compliment, as undeserved as it feels.

 _I am very blessed._

"Hear, hear." Thomas lifts his mimosa. "I think you'd be surprised, Mum. You look the same to me now as you did when I was little."

"High praise indeed." Edward says in a dry voice. "Now she's probably picturing herself in a skirt and suit jacket with shoulder pads, her hair in a hideous perm-"

Elsie laughs. "You're not far off. Doing my hair like that was a bloody nuisance. I was relieved when those days were over."

"I didn't mean that, and you know it." Thomas rolls his eyes. "I meant, Mum, that you were always the best looking mother. Most of the lads at school said as much. I remember the time Jimmy tried to flirt with you-in front of _me_ , no less-"

"Oh God." John chokes on his coffee, trying not to laugh. "Your school mate Jimmy Kent? Anna, you didn't tell me that."

Anna's pressed her fingers to her mouth, giggling through her hiccups. "Yes-I-did-Jimmy-was-an- _idiot_." She coughs into her napkin. "He never came back to the farm after that. I think he was terrified of Joe – and you, Mum."

"With good reason. James was a silly lad. But he's grown up since then, thank goodness. How is he?" Elsie asks Thomas. "Wedding plans all going well?"

"All going well, he said the last time I talked to him. He's doing well. He's really settled down with Leah – she's good for him." Thomas sits back against his chair.

"Getting married in Jamaica," Edward says. "It's perfect for them."

John leans forward. "Have you ever been there before?"

"No. This'll be a first, for both of us." Edward smiles. "Actually, we haven't been on a real vacation since Thomas's birthday last year. That's mostly my fault-"

"For being far too good at your job." Thomas interrupts, putting his hand over Edward's. "It's no wonder the hostess gave Mr. Bates a table so fast."

John turns to Elsie. "Mrs. Hughes…I think there _is_ a picture with you in it here. It's near the front door. I didn't have time to look at it too much, but at a glance I thought it looked like you."

"Really? Where is it by the door? There are a lot of pictures there." Thomas asks.

"It's by a picture of a bunch of sailors, home from the war." John says. Thomas gets up, and Anna follows him.

"I want to see it too."

They come back a couple minutes later, weaving their way through the ever-growing crowd at the front.

"The line's out the door," Anna says, fanning herself. "We were lucky to get seated when we did." She smiles at Elsie, her eyes gleaming. "It _is_ you in the picture. You're behind the bar, not looking at the camera, but across the room somewhere."

"You look like a baby," Thomas says, with a touch of awe.

Raising her eyebrows, Elsie drinks her mimosa. "I _was_ a baby."

Their food arrives, and they find out Sawyer was telling the truth.

"I'll never be able to eat all of this." Anna gapes at the huge pancakes and sizeable plate of fruit. She glances at John. "Help me, please?"

"Of course. But I've got to eat mine too," he gestures at his heaping plate, which holds an enormous omelet, potatoes, mushrooms, tomatoes and a hunk of bacon.

"Fried chicken and waffles?" Elsie asks Thomas, surprised at what's on his plate. "That isn't what you ordinarily order for brunch."

"No, but I thought, why not?" He grins and pours syrup on his waffles. "Today is an out-of-the-ordinary day." His irreverent grin slips just a little. She sees some of her own trepidation staring back at her.

"It certainly is."

The food is excellent – once Edward says so, the rest feel comfortable in agreeing with him out loud – and they all end up taking some with them. Elsie, holding her box, makes her way back to the front of the restaurant. It seems to have gotten even more crowded since they have arrived.

Anna stops rather awkwardly in front of the doors, pointing to their right. "There's the picture."

Elsie steps around a man waiting to get a closer look. It _is_ her.

She's facing the tap, her back mostly to the camera. But her face is turned.

There's no caption saying when the picture was taken, but Elsie's heart skips at the expression on her younger self. She's biting her lip, trying to hold back a laugh, her eyes dancing.

Somehow, Elsie thinks, she would not be surprised if there was a broad-shouldered man sitting at the bar at old Rusty's, just out of frame.

* * *

The foyer at the newly refurbished theater is crowded as well, but there's more movement than at the restaurant: people coming in, people going out, people lingering to look at pictures or to talk to members of the historical society or the theater's new owner, Mr. Bryant.

He approaches them right as they come in.

"No dogs allowed," he says, pointing at Blackjack. "You'll have to leave him outside."

Elsie protests. "My son needs him. He's a seeing-eye dog, not a pet."

" _Every_ one says that," the man snaps at her. "We've done extensive renovation in here, and I'll not have animals ruin it." He glares in Edward's direction. "Snowflakes who think up all sorts of excuses, wanting to bend the rules won't get by me-"

"I'm not a snowflake." Edward grips Thomas's wrist hard to let him know to keep quiet. "I am blind, and Blackjack is my guide. It is legal to bring him with me wherever I go."

"Edward was wounded in Afghanistan." John says. "He would never say it, so _I_ will." He glances at Thomas, who gives him a tight smile, before looking back at Mr. Bryant. "You don't want this place to get a reputation for being rude to wounded veterans. Do you?"

The burly owner blinks, and he looks down. "Of course not. I…didn't mean to offend you." He says, quieter. "My only son was killed in Iraq." He clears his throat and moves aside. "You're all welcome here. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me or one of the staff." He walks away, rather stiffly.

"Arrogant man." Elsie huffs under her breath.

"I feel sorry for him." Anna says. "I mean, he _was_ rude, but his only son is dead. I can't imagine how that would feel." She turns to look at the historical society booth. "Right, Mum, let's go talk to them. Thomas?"

"Over this way." Thomas begins steering Edward to their left. Over the sound system, music plays. At the moment, it's Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time".

"Edward, if you like, you and Blackjack can come with me." John says. "I'd like to explore this place. I'm not as good as Thomas or Anna about describing things, but I could always use the practice."

Edward smiles. "All right, Mr. Bates, it's a deal." He gently takes Thomas's hand off his arm. "You can take a break from me for a while. You've got your own exploring to do."

"Call me John, please," the dark-haired man says, taking Edward's elbow. "I have to keep reminding _Anna_ to call me by my first name." He smiles at her, amused.

"At school we teachers call each other by our last names – it's the rule." Anna cries. "It's hard to break habits."

John raises an eyebrow. "Should I remind you of that the next time I need a cigarette?" He and Edward make their way through the crowd, before disappearing through the doors to the theater itself.

"He still smokes?" Elsie asks Anna as they approach the booth.

"He is trying to quit, for my sake." Anna tells her mother. "He's cut back from a pack a day to five cigarettes."

"I can't believe I'm defending him, but it's damn hard to quit." Thomas says. "Took me six tries to kick it completely."

The volunteer at the booth, Betty, is eager to help them. "You want to know about the Cheerful Charlies?" She repeats Elsie's question. "Goodness, I remember when they were here." Betty reminisces. "My boys were disappointed when my husband and I brought them to the theater. They wanted to see _Star Wars_ again, but I was sick of that and delighted to see the theater used for its original purpose!"

"You-you _saw_ them? Their show?" Elsie stutters, her heart pounding.

 _He WAS here,_ she thinks with every heartbeat. _He was, he was, he WAS._

The older woman nods. "They weren't Eric Idle or anything like that caliber, but they were funny. You remember, since you asked about them." Betty smiles.

Elsie feels her face grow warm. "I…remember, yes. The short Charlie and the tall one."

 _Especially the tall one._

"Short Charlie, forever getting into scrapes, and his tall friend having to get him out of them…The shorter one was more the comedian. But I thought the tall Charlie had the harder job, being the straight man to his friend's antics. The expressions on his face – he was always so appalled!" Betty laughs. "I always wondered if he was as serious in real life as he appeared on stage."

Elsie and Thomas exchange a meaningful glance, and Anna mutters under her breath.

" _That_ sounds familiar."

"Do you remember their names? Their last names?" Thomas asks Betty. "And do you have any pictures of them?"

"Their names? Goodness, no. Just the Cheerful Charlies. We just saw their show the one time. There might be some pictures of them in one of the albums…let me see…"

She gets out an album from the plastic tub beneath the table. "I'm glad I thought to bring these – lots of people have been wanting to look at old pictures today!" She hands the album to Anna and sighs. "I just wish we had more pictures past the vaudeville era…after new owners started playing films, there aren't nearly as many pictures as from previous years. You'd think it would've been the opposite. But there you are…this album's got pictures from the 1950s on. The best ones we've found so far, and some of the ones the society's been given."

Elsie, Anna and Thomas squish onto a nearby bench, with Elsie in the middle. She turns the pages of the album with fumbling fingers, searching, searching…

…and finding nothing.

She stares in disbelief at the last page, which only has one photo in the sleeve. It's of an audience watching _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ in 1979 _._

Flipping back through the pages, she goes slower, thinking maybe she missed something. She goes past pictures of popcorn sellers from the '50s, an audience watching _Giant_ , people waiting in line to see _The Sound of Music._ She gasps at one point farther on, seeing the sisters who had traveled with Charlie, but after telling this to her children, she doesn't see any other person she recognizes.

No Charlie.

No trace of the man whose mere presence had brought her back to this place.

 _Where IS he?_

"He's not in here." She closes the album, her heart dropping into her toes.

"Are you sure?" Thomas asks, taking the album from her and going through it again. Elsie's heart aches at the yearning behind his words. "You said you might not recognize him…that you might not remember what he looked like. Where's that picture of those sisters?"

"Here they are." Anna points to it. "If there's a picture of them, there might be pictures of the Cheerful Charlies. They were here at the same time. Weren't they, Mum?"

Elsie watches Thomas turn the pages, feeling numb. "They were. I never saw their show – I had two jobs that summer, and any time off I had, I was visiting Becky or running errands. Miranda got me to go to the movies a couple of times, but that was it." She reaches over and touches Thomas's wrist. He's staring at a picture of the sisters, singing on stage.

"'The Lark and the Dove'." He reads the caption.

"Yes, that's what they were called. She was rather pretty…Alice, I think her name was." She points at one of the dark-haired young women. "I remember them drinking and dancing at Rusty's. Flirts, the pair of them."

Thomas looks up at her. "Did they flirt with Charlie? Your Charlie?"

 _He wasn't mine_ , she thinks. _But I was his._

"Not that I can remember." She tells him honestly. "I always thought it was odd that he was traveling and working with them, but when they came to the bar, he rarely talked with them or his partner, or they with him. He'd sometimes stand outside – I expect that was to escape the heat – or more often, he'd sit alone at the bar talking to me."

"He preferred your company, then," Anna says. "He had good taste."

"What now?" Thomas closes the album. "If there's no pictures of him in here, I'm going to talk to Betty again. Maybe she's got another album somewhere. If there's pictures of the sisters, then there's _got_ to be pictures of the Cheerful Charlies somewhere, too."

Betty confirms this. "Yes, it's likely. Back at the office there's more pictures, boxes of them. Most of them are from earlier years, like I said, but there could be some from the '70s. There's also old programmes and newspaper clippings, things of that sort. I'm still trying to get organized. I'm terribly sorry I don't have more solid information to give you at the moment." She sighs.

"What about the pictures here?" Elsie asks, gesturing around the foyer. She'd noticed various pictures hanging on the walls when they'd first come into the theater.

Brightening, Betty sits down on a stool behind the booth. "That's what I was going to suggest, that you look around the theater. There might be pictures of the Cheerful Charlies somewhere in here. Mr. Bryant hired a talented designer and art historian, Simon Bricker, for the redecoration, who chose pictures and other artwork to display from the pile we'd collected. Simon also helped me to begin going through the archives – he's the reason I was able to put so many pictures into the albums."

"It sounds like you did a lot of the work yourself." Thomas says. "We'll take a look around and see the results of it. You should be proud."

Betty smiles, looking down. "Thank you. I just care about this place, that's all. Good luck in your search, and if you find a picture of them, could you tell me?"

"We will. Thank you, Betty." Elsie shakes her hand. She, Anna and Thomas make their way across the crowded foyer, stopping occasionally to look at pictures. Thomas scowls in Mr. Bryant's direction as they pass him.

They pause close to the doors leading into the theater and up to the stairs. "It doesn't make sense for us to stay together. We can cover more ground if we split up." Anna says.

"I'll go upstairs first." Thomas says. "You and Mum can look down here. If you see Edward, tell him where I am, and that I'll be down soon." He goes through the archway to the stairs.

"Onward then." Elsie gives Anna a half-smile and they go into the theater. All the lights are on. It's crowded in the back, with people milling in the aisles and down to the front near the orchestra pit. Elsie is surprised to see people on stage.

"Can we go backstage?" She asks, more to herself than anything, but a man with curly brown hair turns from looking at an art deco painting, and answers her.

"Yes. It's quite interesting. They've renovated back there, too."

"Thank you." Elsie says. The man continues on looking at art along the back wall.

Anna crowds close to her, whispering. "That's Michael Gregson."

"Who?"

"He's the editor of _The Sketch._ And he's Edith's boyfriend."

"Edith's boyfriend?" Elsie feels her pulse quicken. "You don't think _she's_ here, do you?"

 _I do NOT want to run into anyone related to Mary Crawley. Not today. I don't want to answer awkward questions…_

"I don't know." Anna looks uncertain. "She could be. Mary says they've been spending a lot of time together recently. Now that I think about it, this seems like the kind of thing they'd go to."

 _Shit_ , Elsie mouths, closing her eyes. "Let's look as much as we can, then. As quickly as possible, just in case. This is a private matter," she says apologetically to Anna. "I'm just not comfortable sharing our…quest with anyone else."

Anna nods. "I understand. This is _your_ story, Mum."

"I'll go backstage and see if I can find anything."

"I'll stay out here. Look, there's John and Edward." Anna points across the large room, and Elsie sees the two men making their way up the opposite aisle. She goes backstage, flinching every time someone turns, hoping it isn't someone she knows.

 _Elsie Hughes, you're being stupid!_

 _Maybe I am, but I can't help it._

Backstage has been renovated, like Mr. Gregson said. Elsie rushes down the narrow hallway, glancing at old pictures of past performers and performances on either side, not really seeing half of them.

 _This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here today, when it was so crowded. We were bound to run into someone we know._

She feels better after scurrying through the largest dressing room and into the darkness behind the curtains. She can see onstage, but she has no intention of going out there.

 _That's the last place I need to be. Under a literal spotlight._

She feels safe in the shadows, where no one can see her face. But the others will be wondering where she is, so after several minutes she goes back into the dressing room. Standing back to let three giggling teenage girls come in, her eyes flit to the opposite wall.

And for a moment, her heart stops.

There's a picture of the Cheerful Charlies in one of their shows.

Elsie draws closer to the picture like it's a magnet. The shorter Charlie has his hands out, like he's begging the taller Charlie for something.

Charlie is turned a little aside, his arms crossed, frowning. But there is a slight quirk in his lip, his eyebrows furrowed, a slight glint in his eye that makes it clear that whatever short Charlie is saying, that he finds it amusing.

 _All that in a picture_ , Elsie marvels.

 _He had talent._

She feels a rush both of loss, that she never saw him on stage, but also an almost euphoric sense of joy. It's only one picture, but Thomas will want to see it. And Anna, and Betty…

Once exiting from backstage, though, she comes to a halt near the orchestra pit. Across the theater, not looking in Elsie's direction, is Mary Crawley. Next to her is Matthew.

Nearly all of Elsie's motivation to find Thomas leaves her in an instant. She ducks her head and hurries up the aisle, hoping they don't see her. She knows she's being ridiculous, but she does not want to run into Mary or Matthew. What would she say?

 _I'd have to lie, of course. Yes…we had brunch, and came over out of curiosity._

She would rather avoid any interaction altogether.

Coming back into the foyer, she moves through the crowd towards the doors, reaching into her purse for her phone. Yanking it out, she thinks she'll go across the road and text the others so they can meet her there.

And then out of the crowd, she sees Sybbie Branson peeking over Tom's shoulder. Despite wanting to avoid them, Elsie slows down to get a better look at Sybil's daughter.

 _So they're here too. She's grown so much._

Before she can make it past Tom unseen, however, the baby screeches and reaches for her. Tom turns, and his eyes widen.

"Mrs. Hughes! What are _you_ doing here?"

Elsie reaches out and lets Sybbie grab her finger. "Thomas and Edward took me, Anna and Mr. Bates to brunch at Pint & Plate," she hears herself say. "We saw that the theater was open, and we came over to see it for ourselves."

* * *

Despite Charles's disappointment, he's fascinated by the changes at the theater. Roaming up into the balcony, admiring the view he hardly ever saw on stage, he goes back down to the mezzanine level. In the broad hallway behind the seats, there's pictures and artwork to admire.

He stops and looks at an old picture of a group of men lined up in front of the old _Hound_. By their hats and overcoats, he guesses it's from the 1930s.

Another man steps closer to see the picture. "Those were the days when men knew how to dress," he says. Charles glances at the younger man in appreciation. He's not wearing a blazer like Charles, but he's wearing pin-striped trousers and a shirt and tie.

"They certainly did. I wish the saying 'clothes make the man', would come back into style." Charles says.

"I keep thinking maybe it will. Or maybe I'm just a holdout, refusing to admit we're well into the twenty-first century. At least where fashion is concerned." The man smiles slightly, and shakes his head.

Something in his movement stirs Charles's memory. "Excuse me, but have we met? You look familiar."

"It's possible. I was thinking the same." The man holds his hand out. "Thomas Barrow."

"Mr. Barrow." Charles blinks, as he shakes Thomas's hand. "Charles Carson."

Thomas's eyes widen. "Mr. Carson? Do you know Mary Crawley?"

"Yes, she's my goddaughter." Charles frowns, letting go of his hand. "How do you know her?"

"I don't, not well." Thomas says. "But she's been friends with my sister Anna for years. And I've gotten to know her husband Matthew through the cricket league."

It clicks. "Ah, _that's_ it," Charles smiles. "Barrow. You're Anna's brother?" _He doesn't look anything like her._ "You were the reason Pharaoh Club lost so spectacularly last summer."

He remembers well his cricket team's worst defeat ever. Robert had been inconsolable.

 _I was into my cups afterward, too._

Thomas crosses his arms, an embarrassed grin on his face. "You kept your team in it. You scored most of their runs."

"I did my best." Charles crosses his arms. "Matthew told me before the match that you were the finest batsman he's ever seen in the league, and after it was over, I agreed with him. Would you consider joining Pharaoh Club?" He asks. "We could use a player like you."

 _Matthew is good, and Mr. Branson does well for how short a time he's been playing, but Mr. Barrow has a natural ability like few I've seen._

Thomas sucks in his breath and lets it out. "Thank you for the compliment…and the offer. But I've already agreed to play for Rawlinson* Club, at least for this summer."

"I understand." Charles says. He's disappointed, but he appreciates the younger man's commitment to his current club.

 _Not many have loyalty these days._

"I'll see you later this summer, then." He turns to move on, then remembers something. "Is Anna here with you? Your sister?"

Thomas frowns. "Yes, why?"

"I thought I saw her downstairs earlier, but wasn't sure if it was her." Charles feels his face grow warm. It's a small lie, but a lie nonetheless – Edith was the one who'd seen Thomas's sister, not him.

"She's here, along with our mother." Thomas says. "And Mr. Bates. My husband and I took them to brunch across the street." He clears his throat, looking away. "We saw the crowd over here, and came over to see the place for ourselves."

"Of course." Charles mutters. His mind is elsewhere.

 _If I run into Anna or Mr. Bates, they might ask why I'm here._

He wants to leave before that happens. Els's picture wouldn't be in the theater, anyway. "Have a good day, Mr. Barrow."

"You too, Mr. Carson." Thomas looks at him with a line between his eyes, open curiosity on his face. Charles hurries off towards the stairs before the younger man can say anything else.

 _HE might ask what I'm doing here._

Going down the stairs, he hears the opening bars of Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" playing over the sound system.

" _A bottle of white, a bottle of red_

 _Perhaps a bottle of rose instead_

 _We'll get a table near the street_

" _In our old familiar place_

 _You and I, face to face…"_

The sound of an echoing cry from a young child cuts across the music. He knows it's Sybbie without seeing her.

In the crowded foyer, Tom Branson talks with an unfamiliar, handsome silver-haired woman. She holds the baby on her hip, gently pulling the little girl's fingers out of her hair and kissing her on the top of her head.

Charles smiles as Sybbie babbles and twists in the woman's arms, reaching for him.

"Hello again." Tom smiles at Charles. "Any luck with Betty?" He asks under his breath.

"Not really." Charles murmurs and shakes his head. "Tell you later."

Sybbie squeals again. "Have you found another friend?" The woman asks Sybil's daughter. She hands the tiny, squirming girl with practiced ease into Charles's arms.

"I think that's what I am, lucky man that I am." Charles gently plucks Sybbie's fist from her grip on his lapel.

"She's lucky to have you for a friend. Like her mother was." Tom says, his eyes soft.

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe we've met." The woman says to Charles. There's a little line between her eyes, but her expression is one of curiosity.

"Forgive my manners. I'm Charles Carson, friend of the Crawleys. And Bransons." Charles shifts Sybbie to his left arm to hold out his right hand. "Everyone calls me Carson."

Instead of taking his hand, she stares at him. Her eyes widen, and even in the warm and crowded foyer, he can see the color leave her face. "Charles…Carson…" Her voice trails off. Billy Joel's piano gymnastics float through the air over the buzz of conversation.

" _Oh…oh…oh…oh..._

 _Brenda and Eddie were the popular steadies_

 _And the king and the queen of the prom_

 _Riding around with the car top down_

 _And the radio on_

 _Nobody looked any finer_

 _Or was more of a hit at the Parkway Diner_

 _We never knew we could want more than that out of life…"_

"Haven't the two of you met, Mrs. Hughes?" Tom frowns at her. "You know Mr. Carson. He's Mary's godfather." The younger man turns to Charles. "Mrs. Hughes is Anna's mother."

Mrs. Hughes turns her head so fast Charles hears her neck crack. "He is _Mary's godfather_?"

"Yes." Tom says, confusion all over his face. His eyes dart between Charles and Mrs. Hughes like he's watching the final at Wimbledon.

Whatever is going on with Mrs. Hughes, Charles will be polite. "You're Anna's mother. Of course." He says. He wishes she would stop staring at him, and shake his hand.

 _I don't remember her being rude before. I think._

 _When did we last meet?_

She does take his hand. The skin on her palm is soft, but there are calluses on a couple of her fingers.

"I believe we have met before, Mr. Carson." She says softly. "Long before Anna and Mary became friends. I'm Elsie, Elsie Hughes." She clears her throat. "I used to work at Rusty's while I was at university."

Somewhere between her saying her name and Rusty's, something clicks inside Charles. For a moment he blinks very hard, feeling light-headed. The woman's hand in his keeps him steady.

 _Elsie…Hughes…_

 _That's…_

 _Impossible._

 _Anna's mother…surely we met another time…_

He's hardly aware of Tom taking Sybbie from him, of the young man muttering something to him, and slipping away from them, disappearing into the crowd.

The only person that matters at this moment is standing in front of him.

Charles blinks again, and her face is clear in front of him. He can't believe he didn't recognize her right away, despite her hair being silver, and not red.

 _The way she'd half-smile, and look up at me from beneath her eyelashes…she's doing it NOW._

He forces away the memory of her doing just that, the two of them tangled in the bedsheets, before kissing him like he'd never been kissed before.

 _Or since._

His mouth is dry. "Els?" He whispers.

She lets out a little gasp, and he thinks she's just as shocked as he is. "Charlie?"

It is when she says his name that he is sure it's her.

 _I have never been so sure._

"Yes." He breathes out.

"It's me, too. It _is_ you." She says, shock and amazement and wonder all mixed up together in three words. "You came back."

"You're here." He touches the wall, glad of something solid to touch. To prop him up.

Color returns to her face, and he can see the rise and fall of her chest. "You came back," she repeats, wide-eyed.

"I came back." He says. "Were you…were you…waiting for me?"

 _Of course she wasn't! She's Anna's mother. Didn't they live on a farm?_

"No…I mean, I wondered if you would come back…um, before I moved away from here." She stutters, twisting her hands together, then running one hand through her hair. Clearly, she's as bewildered as he is.

There's too many thoughts in his head, and he can't get any of them to slow down enough to form a coherent thought.

 _She wondered, whether I would return? She thought about me? She thought about me…_

 _I wasn't prepared for this. To find a picture of her, maybe, was the best I could hope for. But to see her here, in front of me…_

 _And I knew OF her!_

How many times has he heard her name? From Mary or Edith or Sybil?

 _She's as beautiful as I remember. More._

All he can do is stare at her.

While she stares at him.

Someone bumps him from behind and mutters an apology, and the noise in the room gets louder in his consciousness, like someone turning up the volume in his ears.

"… _then the king and the queen went_

 _Back to the green_

 _But you can never go back there again_

 _Oh, oh…"_

"Do you want to go outside?" He asks. His voice sounds loud, and like it's coming from somewhere else. He hopes he doesn't sound rude.

She nods, still staring at him. He follows her to the doors, holding one of them open to let her exit first.

* * *

 _Charles Carson._

 _Carson…Mr. Carson._

How many times has she heard Anna say his name? Or Mary Crawley?

 _More than once._

 _I can't…believe it's…him._

 _Charlie._

They are silent while the loud conversations and the traffic sounds swirl around them outside. They cross the road along with some of the crowd, and follow a large group to the open area. Elsie feels warm, and it isn't just the sticky air.

 _The last time we crossed that road together, we were alone. Holding hands._

 _Going to have sex._

He falls into step beside her, and she glances up at him.

He's looking at her.

She looks away quickly, feeling a hot blush spreading across her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a redness creep up his neck.

 _Like a pair of teenagers who can't stop making eyes at each other!_

Her insides are all jumbled. She isn't prepared for the way he's looking at her, either.

 _Long ago…the way he'd look down, into my eyes…he's doing it NOW._

She forces away the memory of him doing just that, in his hotel room, before kissing her like she'd never been kissed before.

 _Or since._

She doesn't pay much attention to where they're going; it hardly matters. The footpaths are all connected, going in a circular eight pattern, and they go around twice without speaking.

The back of her hand brushes his and she flinches.

"Sorry." He rumbles, putting his hands behind his back like an old-fashioned waiter. Her belly flips again.

 _I didn't expect any of this…how his voice still sounds the same, how well he looks...let alone him BEING here!_

She can't get a handle on her emotions, or her thoughts. Even walking is a bit of a challenge – she has to concentrate to not stumble over her own two feet.

 _I know him, but I don't know him. He's a stranger to me._

 _He's Mary's godfather!? Unbelievable._

She sighs, shaking her head, pulling strands of hair over her ear.

"What is it?" He asks.

"I don't know." She mutters. "I don't understand how we've never met before now…I mean, Anna and Mary have been friends for years. Surely our paths would've crossed at least once."

He nods in agreement. "Mary went to your home a couple of times in the summer when they were girls. But I never took her there."

She would've remembered that. Another memory flashes before her. "Did you ever take Mary to summer camp? At Rosewood?" She asks, her heart pounding.

He stops. "I went there the first year Robert and Cora took her. Were you there? I thought I heard you. In the nurse's station."

Her heart skips.

 _Oh God, I WAS right._

"I was in the nurse's station." Her voice squeaks out. "I thought I heard you, too. But I couldn't be sure, and I never saw you…"

 _Joe was there. It would've been uncomfortable at best if we would've seen each other._

She can't imagine what she would've said.

"I never saw you, either." He says, color leaving his face. "God…I thought I'd gone mad. That was the only year I went there."

 _Of course it was. That was the only year we ended up taking Anna ourselves._

"And I thought you were invited to Mary and Matthew's wedding." He starts walking again, and so does she. "Anna was a bridesmaid."

"I was, and she was." Her voice sounds strange to her. "I did go, but I was late to the ceremony – I was working at another wedding that day, and had to leave early without going to the breakfast afterward."

She vaguely remembers slipping into a pew next to a couple of Isobel Crawley's colleagues at the hospital, and seeing the bridal party at the front.

 _I would never have recognized him. Not from the back, and among a sea of people. He was just another guest sitting on Mary's side of the aisle._

"Ships passing in the night." He murmurs.

 _That's one way to say it._

 _I wasn't prepared for this…finding a picture of him was one thing, but seeing him here in front of me…_

"Do you prefer Els? Or Elsie?" His voice jars her.

Everything is jarring.

"Elsie. Please." Joe used to call her Els sometimes. He'd called her that so often she was used to it, but it doesn't sound right coming from Charlie.

"Does everyone call you Carson?" She asks, daring to turn her head a little in his direction.

"Some do. Some of my coworkers are more formal…Mr. Carson." He pulls at his collar and looks at her again. "I don't mind if _you_ call me Charlie."

"All right. Charlie." She says awkwardly, as they continue walking.

He smiles a little when she says his name. "I met your son upstairs. He said he took you and your family to brunch at the new Rusty's."

The reminder of Thomas hits her like a bucket of ice water being poured over her head.

 _Oh God. Thomas._

Panic wells in her, and her mind races.

 _Charlie doesn't know about him. How the hell am I going to tell him? I've GOT to tell him…don't I? Should I do it now?_

 _Tell him what? About Thomas taking the DNA test? About Joe's suspicions? "It was nice of you to meet our son, Charlie. What do you think of him?"_

 _Christ, I can't handle this…_

She wishes time would stop, or slow down long enough for her to process her thoughts in a rational matter. "Y-yes." She stutters. "He and Edward took me and Anna and Mr. Bates there. It was quite nice. It looks nothing like it did before."

 _Nothing is the same as it was before._

 _If I tell him I came here searching for him, he'll think I'm little better than a stalker. Or a sad woman, searching for a past that's vanished._

 _Except it's not ALL vanished. He's here._

"W-what did you and Thomas talk about?" She rubs her hands together. They feel clammy.

"Mostly about the cricket league. He seemed impressed with the theater. I hope he's glad all of you popped over for a look." He says, still smiling. He lowers his voice. " _I'm_ glad you did."

She stumbles over nothing, and he grabs her arm to keep her from falling. She bangs into him and pushes herself off him, trying not to feel his solid body, his firm grip on her arm. "Sorry," she gasps. Her face is on fire.

"No apology necessary." He lets go of her arm once she's regained her balance. "I hope _you're_ glad you visited the theater."

If she felt more level-headed, she might think he sounds worried. As things stand, she's embarrassed by her stumble, and irritated by her inability to make sense of her feelings.

And she's always hated feeling out of control. It doesn't help that the last time she felt so lost (and she rather hates using that word too, as accurate as it is) was after Charlie had left.

 _Leaving me standing alone in front of the motel._

"Why are _you_ here? Now?" It comes out just as harsh as she feels. He stops in the middle of the footpath, taken aback.

It's his turn to stutter. "Erm…I…we…Edith and Mr. Gregson are doing a piece on the re-opening. Mr. Branson and the baby rode with them, and Mary and Matthew asked me if I wanted to come along. I-I didn't have anything better to do, so I agreed."

Her heart plummets from her chest into the ground.

"Anything…better…to…do," she repeats, each word feeling like a punch to the chest.

 _So he left me all those years ago, and only came back here because he was bored!_

 _See?_ A little voice in her mind says. _SEE? He only thought he heard you once, but otherwise he completely forgot about you._

 _I was something to be enjoyed, and then forgotten._

 _Why did I ever believe him when he said he'd come back? I KNEW better._

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid fool!_

"I see." She snaps, her eyes boring into his. "I see how it is…coming here was just a diversion, something to amuse you on the weekend. For a day. Is that how you still see it?"

He blinks. "I suppose…though meeting you was a pleasant surprise. A _very_ pleasant surprise." He smiles tentatively at her. "Seeing you reminds me of a happy time in my life. Perhaps the happiest time."

She doesn't smile back.

 _Words, only words. Obviously he doesn't mean what he says, or he would've acted like it was the happiest time in his life._

"You're as beautiful as I remember." He says.

 _More words._

With every passing moment, she's growing angrier.

"What do you mean by that?" She asks.

His eyebrows come together. "Just…what I said. What else could it mean?"

 _Oh, don't play with me._ "What do you expect from me now? A kiss? For me to go home with you?" She's noticed he's not wearing a wedding ring. She knows that doesn't mean much – he could still be married and not wear a ring, or be living with someone else. "Is that what you want?"

He holds up his hands, his thick eyebrows raised. "I – no, of course not! I didn't expect to see you here…or that we'd even know _of_ each other." He frowns at her. "I had no expectations whatsoever," he says, rather pompously, in her opinion. "We're both older than the last time we met. There's no need to misconstrue my words, or to get upset."

She only just saves herself from cussing him out right there, by a family with children approaching them on the footpath. Biting her tongue, she waits for them to pass. She tastes blood in her mouth.

"Upset?" She whispers, her eyes blazing. " _Upset?_ I have every right to be upset with you!" She cries.

"What?" He squints at her. "What could I have done to make you angry? We haven't seen each other in forty years." Frowning, he glances around them like he's afraid someone might be listening.

 _A proud man, then. Arrogant. One who cares more about appearances, than anything below the surface. What else should I have expected from someone willing to be Mary Crawley's godfather?_

"I don't remember you having a temper like this." He says.

"Yes, I have a temper. I've always had one." She seethes. "But at least I'm not a liar."

His face flushes red, and his chest puffs up. She's glad to see him angry. It's clear he's not used to having his precious honor challenged. "Are you calling _me_ a liar? If you are, at least have the decency to tell me why!"

 _You don't even have the decency to admit it yourself. IF you even remember what you said._

"Yes, you are a liar. You are a _liar_ , Charles Carson. You said you loved me, once. You said you'd come back here. You made a promise." _To me._ She shakes her head, her hands on her hips, hating the tears burning in her eyes. "You broke that promise. You…are…a… _liar_."

She's hurt, and she wants him to hurt as badly as she feels. "I should've slept with your partner. The other Charlie. He wanted to sleep with me, and wasn't shy about telling me so."

He grunts, almost like she's stabbed him. She'd feel sorry for the crushed look on his face, but she's too furious.

Looking down at the ground, he balls his fists. "Maybe I had reasons for breaking my promise to you, Elsie Hughes." He growls, before looking back up at her. Rage flits across his face. "Maybe I had other people to think of, other obligations to meet, rather than to be at your beck and call. I'm not a dog who comes at your whistle." He takes a step towards her. "I can't believe I thought I loved you. Or wasted my time with you. _You_ seemed happy with one night of passion. But maybe I was just a convenient man to seduce…an easy target. You should've gone for Charlie Grigg," he spits out. "He would've been a more satisfying lover to your taste, no doubt. And he would've left you in the morning without bothering to tell you goodbye." The curve of his lip turns up, a cruel look. "It's what you would've deserved."

Bile rises in Elsie's throat. "I didn't give a damn about him," she says. "I can't believe I gave a damn about you, ever, for a single moment." She laughs, a wild, harsh sound. "I even thought _I_ loved you once. I should've known better than to love a man who insults me, who doesn't mean what he says, who breaks his promises and who doesn't have the integrity to give me even a flimsy excuse for it. And who's a hopeless fucking liar to boot!"

Unseen by either of them, John Bates stands near the north end of the open area, watching them. He drops his cigarette stub on the pavement, steps on it, and hurries off.

Charlie's eyes glitter with malice. "I don't make excuses. But I don't owe you a detailed report on my life from the last forty years, nor do you deserve one," he fumes, towering over her, looking down his nose. "If you ever cared for me all those years ago, _you_ should've had the decency to tell me. Or tell me you wanted me to stay. But why would you have done that?" He snorts. "According to your friends, you had your _real_ boyfriend waiting for you at university. How convenient…you married him and had a couple kids, after getting what you wanted from me." He pulls on his jacket cuffs. "You dare to accuse _me_ of wanting to take you home? That's classic projection – your husband is dead, and now _you_ want someone to take his place in your bed. Well, it won't be me. Good luck finding a replacement."

Though she's told herself over and over that what he says are only words, they cut through her like a dagger through her heart.

He is nothing like the decent man she spoke with across the bar, the gentle partner who danced with her, the passionate lover who inflamed her body and knit her soul together.

 _Maybe he only ever existed in my imagination._

In a rage, she flies forward and slaps him across the face so hard he stumbles. A red mark spreads on his cheek.

 _GOOD._

 _Thomas would kill him if he knew he'd spoken to me like that!_

 _Charlie doesn't deserve to know about my son…Thomas wouldn't want to have anything to do with him, anyway._

"Fuck _off_ , you good-for-nothing arse." Her voice is low, but her blood's pumping so hard she can feel her pulse on the side of her head. "It's a good thing we never saw each other for all these years. I hope to God I NEVER see you again."

"I hope not either." He holds one hand on his cheek over the mark she left, his voice as cold as ice. "I'd rather be put to death."

She doesn't want to leave him with the last word. Not again.

"Go to hell," she snarls.

He only stands there glowering at her, indignant. She turns and storms off.

 _Now he knows what it feels like to watch someone leave HIM behind._

* * *

 **A/N:**

… **please don't kill me.**

 **So last week (I think) I dropped a teaser from this chapter on Tumblr. It was misleading to a certain extent, and if I've offended anyone by doing that, I'm sorry.**

 **This chapter has not been written down until recently, but it was always planned to be like this. It's not pretty. I will say that their confrontation was from Elsie's point of view, and that you'll get Charles's in the next chapter. Not a rehash of the whole scene, but his perspective on what was said. You probably already know what he was thinking at a few points, anyway. Poor Charlie. And poor Elsie.**

 **Yes, they knew each other (once, long ago) but here they're practically strangers who get thrown together unexpectedly, and don't know how to deal with it, much less know how to talk to each other. They haven't spent years working together, knowing each other's strengths and weak spots. So they're both flying blind here, so to speak. I hope I did that justice. As well as (hopefully) keeping them (a little) in character.**

 **I don't want to give spoilers away, but please trust me. I love these boobies too much to leave them bleeding.**

 **A/N 2:**

 ***This classic song fits this scene, but also…rest in peace, Oppy. *cries***

 ***Yes, there are car seats for dogs. A friend of mine has one for her furry child.**

 ***Rawlinson is named after a WWI British general.**


	13. I'm Not Over You

**A/N: Have I told you all you're awesome? Have I mentioned that your feedback means the world to me? You are, and it does.**

 **Are we all still bleeding? I am…**

 **Oh, and have I reminded the powers that be that I don't own Downton Abbey? There's the reminder.**

 **Posting this in haste before work, because if I don't it'll be another day before I get to it. And we can't have that.**

* * *

"… _There were those empty threats and hollow lies_

 _And whenever you tried to hurt me_

 _I just hurt you even worse, and so much deeper_

 _There were hours that just went on for days_

 _When alone at last we'd count up all the chances_

 _That were lost to us forever…"_

"It's All Coming Back To Me Now", Celine Dion

 _ **May, 2018**_

Anna is studying retro posters of productions from the '50s in the back of the theater when she hears her name.

"Anna?"

She turns in surprise. "Mary! What are you doing here?"

Her best friend emerges from between an elderly couple, Matthew behind her. "Edith thought she saw you and Thomas in the restaurant earlier. I didn't believe her. But can you blame me? You always have brunch at Chouteau on Saturdays."

"Not today." Anna shifts her feet, averting her eyes. "Edward wanted to check out the new place. A friend of a friend is the chef there, apparently. We came over here to see what the fuss was about," she says quickly.

"Oh." Mary smiles, looking nervous. "We didn't expect to see you, or anyone we knew here."

"Well, my family's here. You make us sound like spies, or something." Anna says. It isn't like her friend to be evasive with her. "Hi, Matthew. So Edith came with you too? That's rare."

"Actually, she came with Michael. Tom and Sybbie are here too." Matthew glances at Mary. "We sort of…decided on a family outing."

"Are your parents here, too?" Anna asks. She hopes she'll be able to intercept her mother and tell her.

 _She won't be happy._

"No, they're with Rosamund this weekend. But Carson came with us. You know him, he never goes anywhere, and I thought it'd be good for him." Mary shrugs.

 _Mr. Carson? Came along without Robert and Cora? Odd._

"…Right." Something doesn't fit.

Suddenly Tom appears through the crowd looking frantic, Sybbie on his hip. "Oh thank God, there you two are! I saw Edith on the stairs, and told her to find Michael and meet us in the foyer. Come on...you are _not_ going to believe this…"

"Steady on." Matthew puts a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on? And have you forgotten what Anna looks like? You never ignore her."

Tom flinches when he sees Anna. "Sorry, I didn't mean to." He grips Sybbie, and runs a hand through his hair, even though it's already standing on end. "Actually, you'd better come with us. I ran into your mother a few minutes ago."

"I'd like to chat with her." Matthew smiles at Anna. "Mother was asking after her just last week."

"Come _on_ ," Tom says, wild with impatience. "Anna, I saw Edward sitting in the foyer with Blackjack. We need to find Thomas as soon as possible – Mrs. Hughes said he was here-"

"What's going on? And why do we need Thomas?" Anna asks her colleague as she, Mary and Matthew hurry behind Tom back into the foyer.

"He'll want to know about it too, sure enough. Your mum will tell him if we don't, but he's the sort of man who wants to know things sooner rather than later."

"Know what? _What_ will Mum tell him?" Anna frowns.

"She…" Tom leads them around four grey-haired ladies, shaking his head. "Oh, it's un _believable_ , come on…"

"Goodness." Mary says. "I haven't seen you in such a state since Ireland elected Varadkar."

"I wish this was for as good of a reason, but I don't think so." Tom says over his shoulder. Edith and Michael are standing just opposite the historical society booth. They're talking to Edward and Thomas, who's sitting on the bench next to his husband.

"Look who's here." Edith says to them as they all crowd along the wall, trying to keep the middle of the crowded room open. "Thomas and Edward-"

"We know." Mary cuts her off. "'Look who's here'? It's rude to talk like that in front of Edward."

"It's fine." Edward says, calm. "It's a common figure of speech. I'm not offended."

"So everyone's here, Anna, except your mother?" Mary asks. "And Carson. Where is he?" She turns one way and then the other, looking for him. "I haven't seen him since we arrived."

"I saw him upstairs not too long ago." Thomas says. "Matthew, he asked if I'd join Pharaoh this summer, but I turned him down. I promised Edward's army friend Captain Davidson that I'd stay on at Rawlinson."

"I expected as much." Matthew shrugs. "It was worth a try, I don't blame him for asking, or you for turning him down."

"I thought that was you earlier," Michael says to Anna. "In the back of the theater. I didn't recognize your mother. I haven't met her before."

"You'll get a chance, I'm sure." Anna turns, scanning the foyer. "Mary, I didn't tell you earlier, but John's here too. He drove up separately and met us for brunch. Edward, do you know where he is?"

"He didn't tell me where he was going when he and I met Thomas a few minutes ago," Edward tells her. "It wouldn't surprise me if he snuck outside for a smoke."

"Speaking of smoke, I think Tom's going to explode if we don't let him talk." Michael smiles, amused. Tom dances with impatience, shifting from one foot to the other, jiggling Sybbie up and down.

"Edith, we were right." Tom blurts out, looking at his younger sister-in-law. "You and I. Weeks ago, you remember the first time we talked to Mr. Carson, that day at lunch? We. Were. Right. It WAS her."

"Right…?" At first the fair-haired young woman looks confused, then her mouth drops open and she gasps. "Are you-are you _serious_ , Tom _?_ Carson and _Mrs. Hughes?-_ "

Several people talk at once.

" _What_?" Matthew and Thomas chorus together.

"What? What about our mum and Mr. Carson?" Anna glances in between Tom and Edith.

"What does he mean, 'you were right'?" Michael touches Edith's arm.

"What are you saying? I told you, it's impossible." Mary's eyes narrow, looking at Tom.

"I'm as serious as I've ever been." The Irishman says. His mouth is in a line. "I'm telling you, I was talking to Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson introduced himself to her like they'd never met before. I thought they'd met years ago, and it turns out they did…way earlier than we knew. _Here_."

"What the _fuck?_ " Thomas half-shouts. Red spots appear on his otherwise colorless face. Edward grips his hand as everyone else turns to look at him. "Branson, start talking. _NOW_."

Anna's eyes widen as realization sets in. "Tom, you said they _here_? How long ago?"

Tom's eyes dart to Thomas, then Anna, and finally to Mary. "Mary, I know we promised to keep it to ourselves, but the cat's out of the bag." He turns back towards Thomas, a torrent of words pouring out of him. "We came here today – me, Matthew, Mary and Edith – to help Mr. Carson. Sorry Michael," he says to the editor, who's totally confused. "He wanted to keep it private, and Edith promised. Mr. Carson was here in this town many years ago for a short time, working. While he was here he met a woman who worked at the old Rusty's and they…well, they bonded." Color rises in Tom's face.

"'Bonded'? Is that what we're calling it?" Matthew mutters under his breath to Mary, his eyebrows raised.

"Not that Carson would _ever_ be vulgar, but he made it clear they were intimate." Mary shakes her head, still in disbelief. "If she was Mrs. Hughes, I wish they would've just shaken hands and been friends."

"Anyway," Tom barrels on, "When Mr. Carson's work commitment was over, he went home to work with his father. He never forgot the woman, but he didn't know her full name. He told Sybil about her last year. It was the first time he'd spoken about it in God knows how long, maybe ever. Sybil told me because...I-I think she wanted me – wanted _us_ – to help him find the woman. So we came up here to see if we could find any information. I ran into Mrs. Hughes a few minutes ago, and we talked. After Mr. Carson introduced himself, she went completely white. He almost fainted when she said his name. And that's when I went to find you," Tom finishes.

For a moment there is dead silence between all of them. The dull roar of the crowded foyer goes on, while the song "The King of Wishful Thinking" floats bizarrely through the loudspeakers.

"I can't believe this," Edith murmurs. "I mean, it was a shot in the dark to come up here, for Carson to find her, but for her to BE here, and she's _Mrs. Hughes_ …oh my god. Oh my _GOD_." She flaps her hands in an almost-clap, like she's not sure what to do with them.

"What's Mr. Carson's name? His first name?" Edward asks, his voice quiet.

"Charles, but our family's called him Carson since before I was born." A line appears between Mary's eyes. "Anna, are you all right-"

"No. No I'm not. Thomas… _Charlie_." The blond woman sags against the wall, her hands over her mouth, her face gone completely white.

Her brother's face is pale tinged with green, his mouth opening and shutting, but no sound coming out. Next to him, Edward's mouth hangs open.

"Oh my…oh my…oh…" The veteran soldier whispers, rocking back and forth, clutching Thomas's hand. Blackjack stands up and rests his head on his human's knee.

"Steady on," Matthew goes around Mary to stand beside the bench where the two men sit. "It's a shock, yes, but now we know. I just don't know why Mrs. Hughes never said anything about it. It's not out of the ordinary for someone in our parents' generation to have had more than one relationship."

"Oh my god," Anna says, moving her hands from her mouth to her cheeks, her voice faint. "You don't know. None of you know…no, it's not uncommon. Mum told us she'd met someone here a long time ago. That's why we really came here today. For her. We hoped to find something about him, but she didn't remember his full name either, just that his first name was-was Charlie. Tom, when did Mr. Carson say this happened?" She bites her lip. "Summer 1977?"

"Yes." Tom kisses the top of Sybbie's head as she drools onto his shirt.

"But _like I said_ , even if it was, I don't understand how they could've had a relationship." Mary says, annoyed and bewildered. "Thomas was a tiny baby then."

"No he wasn't, because he was born in June 1978," Anna glances at Thomas. He's bent over, his hands covering his face. All the while Edward keeps muttering _ohmygodohmygodohmygod_ under his breath.

"1978? I thought he turned forty last year," Mary says.

"I know how old my brother is," Anna says with some heat.

"Shit." Thomas's voice is muffled through his hands. "Shit shit shit shit, this is not happening, tell me this is _not_ happening-"

Holding his hand to his forehead, Michael speaks. "Wait, are you saying-"

"Jesus Christ." Thomas sits up, stunned and miserable. "Mr. Carson is my biological father."

"Holy fuck," Edward swears. "Holy _fuck_ -"

Tom and Edith exchange stunned looks, and Edith turns to Michael, who's nonplussed.

Anna has never seen Mary's eyes so wide. "You have _got_ to be joking."

Matthew's mouth hangs open, and he squeezes his wife's shoulder. "I seriously doubt he'd joke about something like this."

"Not bloody likely," Thomas rubs Edward's back, shaking his head. "I'd never joke about that," he half-laughs, almost sounding hysterical. "Bloody hell…we were _talking upstairs_! About cricket, for Christ's sake!"

John hurries through the doors and past a swarm of other people in the crowded foyer. "Anna!" He pulls up short, seeing the Crawleys. "Oh, I didn't know you all were here."

"Yes, they are, and for good reason. And thank God _you're_ here," Anna grabs his hand. "Right now, I don't care if you were sneaking a cigarette. I might need one myself."

"We need to go." John says, lines on his forehead. "I'll explain outside, your mother's in the grassy area. What's wrong? Is Thomas all right?" he asks. Thomas is breathing in and out deeply, counting out seconds.

"Is Mrs. Hughes talking with Mr. Carson?" Tom asks John.

The dark-haired man frowns at him. "Did you see them together before?"

"He did." Anna squeezes John's hand. "They all came here with Mr. Carson to help him find a woman he met forty years ago. I didn't tell you before, but I will now." She quickly explains everything in a rush to her boyfriend.

"So your mum…and Mr. Carson…" John rubs his face, trying to take it all in. "God, this explains a lot." He glances at Thomas, then back at Anna. "We _really_ need to go. They'll understand," he says, both to Anna and around her, to Mary and the others. "Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were walking around the pathways. I could see them but I couldn't hear them. They _were_ talking for a bit, but when I left they were arguing. At least, they both looked furious."

Anna closes her eyes in horror. "Oh Lord. I haven't seen Mum lose her temper in ages."

"Carson looked furious?" Mary asks John. "He never loses his temper."

"Well, he's lost it for good and proper today, and so has Mrs. Hughes," John says, grim. "I've never seen him look like that. Or her. I thought Vera in a towering rage was the worst I've seen-"

Jumping to his feet, Thomas helps Edward up. "Shit," he snaps. "I don't know about your ex-wife, but Mum's temper is worse than mine when she's lost it. Eddy, stay here with Anna and the others," he grips Edward's hands. "I'll get her and be right back-"

 _Crash._

One of the glass doors to the foyer flies open with force, its sound silencing half the foyer. Elsie barges across the floor towards her children, her face red, her hair whipped by the wind. Anna can almost see smoke pouring from her ears.

"Thomas, we're leaving," Elsie says, in a voice that brooks no opposition. " _NOW_."

Her mother's demeanor reminds Anna of the night Thomas and Jimmy Kent were arrested for theft.

 _Gwen called her the Scottish Dragon._

 _She looks like it._

"M-Mrs. Hughes?" Edith pipes up bravely. "Is Carson outside?"

Elsie turns to the middle Crawley daughter, her eyes blazing. "Yes, he is."

"What did you _say_ to him?" Mary demands. Matthew groans, and grabs her arm.

"It's not our business-"

"I told him he's a liar." Elsie snaps. "He's a _liar_ , and a man without honor. And I meant it." Her eyes narrow as she stares daggers at Mary. "Tell him I meant every word I said."

Thomas hurries to his mother and pulls her back towards the doors, and she lets him.

Anna takes Edward's arm. "I'll ring you later," she mutters to Mary as she passes her friend. John follows behind her. The noise in the room rises again, as people stop staring their direction.

"We have to find Mr. Carson." Tom says, still staring after the departed group. No one moves.

Michael whispers in Edith's ear. "Don't worry, I won't write a word about this." He stares at the glass doors, and the tiny crack across one of them. "As much as I would like to."

* * *

" _Go to hell", she said._

 _SHE can go there first, for all I care._

Charles stomps along the pathways, his hands balled into fists, not seeing anything in front of him. All he can see is the image of the woman he has found – the woman he'd lost – and he wonders what has happened to the woman he _thought_ he had known.

Combined with his fury is confusion. All he did was tell her that he was happy seeing her, that it reminded him of perhaps the happiest time in his life, and that she was as beautiful as he remembered (more even) and what did he get for complimenting her?

 _Her storming into a rage out of nowhere!_

 _BITCH._

He yanks off his blazer to carry it. The air is heavier, stickier, the day promising its own storm.

What did she expect, seeing him here? He hadn't expected to see her, much less speak to her. He'd felt like a trapped animal when she flew into that horrid temper.

And like a wounded animal when she attacked him.

Telling him she should've slept with Grigg was, for one horrible instant, like seeing Alice in bed with his former partner. It was a horrible reminder of his own inadequacy, and of being abandoned by someone he thought the world of.

Only it was a thousand times worse, because he's long since ceased to feel anything for Alice except indifference, mixed with a little fondness and occasional pity.

 _Whereas Elsie…_

He huffs out a grunt that comes out louder than he anticipates. A woman walking her dog pulls on the leash to get her pet out of his way. He doesn't notice.

"Infuriating woman!" He snarls, talking to himself. "We both knew it was a fling years ago! She knew I was leaving the next day…and _NOW_ she's furious that I left? If she didn't want me to leave then why the bloody hell didn't she say so!? I don't deserve her venom! Snake. _Snake,_ " he hisses.

 _YOU didn't say why you came back here. Why didn't you tell her the truth? That you came here for her?_

His conscience pricks him. "She still would've attacked me," he argues. "She would've said it didn't matter if I came for her, because I didn't come back sooner. Or she would've accused me of stalking her. She would've twisted my words to make ME the villain, no matter what!"

 _Yes, I did say I'd come back. And I did. Once. She was gone already! That's not acting like someone who's waiting._

He doesn't know when she got married, but guessing at the ages of her children, he doesn't think it was long after he had left.

 _What was I supposed to come back here FOR, anyway? She never said she loved me!_

 _Until today._

 _She said she 'thought' she loved me…it was probably just lust at best, and a selfish desire to have her fun at my expense at worst._

 _I should be used to being used by now._

He turns as the pathway turns, following its pattern, as he clenches and unclenches his fists. He doesn't know whether to cry or scream, or vomit.

 _She may think she has a right to call me a liar._

 _But she knows nothing – NOTHING – about my life, what happened after I left this godforsaken town…the hell I went through after Dad died. After that outburst, she's got no right to know, either! She's the type of woman who takes, takes, and takes without giving anything in return. And then takes offense when she doesn't get everything she wants!_

 _She had no right to question my honor._

 _I should've questioned hers MORE._

That moment when he had accused her of projection, of wanting to rekindle something between them simply to replace her dead husband – he had seen something of the pain she'd caused him flicker in her eyes.

 _It was likely only her pride._

A hard slap in the face was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of getting a little of his own hurt back, he thinks.

As little satisfaction as it is.

The wind picks up, ruffling his hair, as he goes around the looped pathway again. His conscience nags him. Not because he thinks he was wrong, but because he feels he could've said things differently. Worded things in a way so that she didn't go off on him.

 _Would it have been possible?_

Seeing her in the foyer, that moment when he'd realized who she was, was a moment that he hadn't let himself dream of. The moments after were filled with a mixture of elation, wonder, awe…he'd even caught her checking him out once, sending his confidence soaring.

Then he'd been crushed as their conversation had escalated. He'd had the feeling that every word he said was wrong (at least until he lost his temper), but what _could_ he have said that would've changed her reaction?

 _Nothing._

She'd thrown accusations at him, saying he wanted to kiss her or take her home with him, and he'd thrown them back at her. But there was a kernel of truth to her accusation, he thinks uncomfortably. He _had_ thought about what it would be like to kiss her again. But nothing more than that.

 _I wonder what would have happened if I'd have kissed her. She probably would've slapped me even harder. And kneed me in the groin, leaving me writhing on the ground._

 _She'd probably enjoy doing that._

 _Bitch._

"Carson?"

He looks up, surprised to hear his name. It's Mary.

From the expression on her and Matthew's faces, it appears they know what's happened.

"Let's go." His voice is harsh. "Say goodbye to the others for me." He strides past them and into the car park. They meet him at the car within minutes. He's glad, both because he's beyond eager to get away, and because the sun is obscured by billowing clouds and a darkening sky.

For a long time no one speaks. Matthew turns the air up, and Charles stares unseeing out the window.

The day feels absolutely unreal.

 _It's been a long time since I've lost control of myself._

He feels…lost. He can't remember the last time he felt so disconnected from his own heart – maybe it was after his father died, maybe it was when he lived at the homeless shelter.

 _When I saw Elsie in front of the motel, watching her until the bus rounded the curve and she was gone._

"Carson?" Mary's voice is gentle. "What happened between you and Mrs. Hughes?"

He rubs his face. Seeing that they're already close to his house surprises him.

"You don't have to tell us if you don't want to." Matthew says, glancing at Charles in the rearview mirror. "We ran into Anna and put it together. Do you _want_ to talk about it?"

There is a persistent buzz from the front of the car. Either Matthew or Mary is receiving a flurry of texts.

"No." In a way, he's glad they put it together between them. He doesn't feel like explaining it again. His voice sounds strange to him. Brittle. "Yes," he sits back, suddenly angry again. He drums his fingers on the windowsill. "Whatever Els…Elsie was like a long time ago, she's certainly not the girl I knew _now_. I was shocked to see her, happy even for about five minutes, before she attacked me! Accused me of being dishonorable and having no integrity out of nowhere, not caring that anyone could hear us," he fumes. "She blamed me for 'leaving her,'" he uses his fingers for quotation marks, even though the other two are turned the opposite way. "Neither one of us had any obligation to each other back then…what the hell I did to make her turn on me like _that_ , I have no idea! Mary, I know she's Anna's mother, but between you and me, she is a _bitch_."

Mary murmurs sympathetically under her breath. "Did she…say...anything else...to you?" Her phone buzzes again, and she picks it up with an exasperated sigh. "Stop texting me!" She says to her phone.

"Not much worth repeating." He snorts. "Before she turned into a shrieking harpy, we figured out that we'd heard each other at Rosewood, the first time you went there. Somehow we'd missed seeing each other after you and Anna became friends. She said she was glad we'd never met before, and that she hoped we never saw each other again. I said the same…I hope this doesn't make things difficult for you and Anna. My quarrel is with Mrs. Hughes," he snarls her name, feeling bile rise in his throat. Matthew turns onto his street. "It doesn't mean you have to be torn between me and an old friend."

Mary lifts her head. "Anna's been texting me for the last twenty minutes. I have no intention of leaving our friendship behind." She turns around when Matthew pulls into Charles's driveway. "Do you want company for a while? I could ring Dr. Clarkson if you like, he and Isobel are in town this weekend…" she glances at Matthew.

"Thank you, but I'd rather be alone." Charles grabs his blazer from the seat next to him and opens the door. "Thank you for the ride. I'm sorry for this…mess."

"No apology necessary." Matthew gives him a small smile in the rearview mirror.

After Charles gets out, Mary rolls down the window for him to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Give my best to your parents," he says. "And if you don't mind…please don't say anything about this to them. Or your grandmother OR Isobel. Tell Edith, and Mr. Branson to keep it among you. I'd rather forget about it. If I can."

"I'll tell them. They'll understand." Mary squeezes his hand, and squints up at the sky. "I think it's going to rain."

The first drops hit him as he gets his key in the lock. By the time he's through to his tiny kitchen inside, tossed his blazer on a chair, and grabbed the nearest Cabernet, the rain's hammering against the windows.

He tries to look at the paint examples he got at the store. Re-painting his little dining area seemed like a good idea two weeks ago, but now he can't get himself to concentrate. Several books are flipped through, and abandoned.

Looking in the fridge, he tries to think about what he could make to eat, but Elsie's angry face keeps swimming in front of him. He gives up and makes scrambled eggs on toast.

After washing up his few dishes, he sits in his recliner, staring at his grandfather's pocket watch. Watching its tiny hands tick the seconds off.

 _It was on the table next to the bed when Elsie and I had sex._

"You're better off without her," he says aloud. He gets up and pours himself another glass of Cabernet. Trying to convince himself he doesn't care. "You lived forty years without her, and you can live the rest of your life without her." He drinks the glass down. "Good riddance to trash. _Scottish_ trash."

Kicking his shoes off, he goes down the hallway to his bedroom. Outside, lightning flickers in the distance. It reflects through the window and on the picture he's kept of his parents.

He goes toward it, wishing with all his heart that they were still here, that he could talk to them.

"I never found the right woman, Dad," he whispers. "You said I would…but I never did. I thought I did, once, but I was wrong."

His mother's eyes beckon him. "Mum, no one's ever held a candle to you." His voice breaks, and a tear runs down his face. He swipes at it with the back of his hand, feeling like a little boy. "I miss you."

Margaret Carson only smiles at him from the black-and-white picture.

 _She had beautiful grey eyes…_

Charles stumbles to the bathroom, weeping, and turns on the shower. He cries so much, taking off his clothes is impossible, so he gets in still dressed.

Sitting beneath the warm, gushing water, he feels broken.

 _I should not have told Elsie I *thought* I loved her today. I shouldn't have given her any ammunition to shoot with._

 _Even if it was true._

 _When we were young she would've noticed Grigg flirting with every woman there. But me? No, I was the idiot sap who sat and talked to her. She knew she could have her way with me._

 _I thought she was different. The woman I saw today was a stranger._

She is nothing like the friendly woman who spoke with him across the bar, the graceful partner who danced with him; nothing like the passionate lover who inflamed his body and knit his soul together.

 _She knit me together, and now she's torn me apart._

 _God, I DID love her. And I thought she felt SOMETHING for me._

There is a terrible ache in his chest, one worse than any physical pain he's endured. What makes it hurt worse is knowing there's no way to get rid of it.

 _She hates me now._

 _I've lost her, for good._

* * *

"What you still doing here?"

Charles looks up from his laptop. "Working, what does it look like?"

Beryl shuffles her purse in his office doorway. "It's going on seven o'clock on a Thursday night. Rather keen, aren't we?"

He takes off his glasses and glares at her. "In case you've forgotten, I own this place. It's my responsibility to do my part."

"There's responsibility, and then there's working yourself into an early grave." She takes a couple steps in. "You've worked until past seven every night this week."

"How did you know that?" He leans back in his chair. It doesn't really surprise him that she knows.

"Mel saw the lights on over here, and saw your car. I'm not the only one who keeps tabs on you."

He's barely spoken to the bartender across the street, but the man is second only to Beryl in knowing what's going on.

"I should tell him to stop spying on me," he says, glancing out the window.

"Do that." The frizzy-haired woman fishes her keys out of her purse. "Take a walk over there and have a drink."

"I don't need a drink," Charles mumbles. _I've had far too many in the last six days._

 _And if I never go into another bar again, it will be too soon._

The thought of sitting at a bar only reminds him of Elsie.

"Mel doesn't just have alcohol. He'll give you something non-alcoholic. And good food besides." Beryl raises her eyebrows. "He'll also listen to you when you talk. Maybe _he_ can help you get over the woman who broke your heart."

He stares at her for a beat. "How do you know-"

"Mr. Carson, it's obvious." Beryl says in a voice softer than usual. "Look, I don't know what happened to you last weekend, and I won't ask right now-"

"-or ever," he growls.

She ignores him. "-but ever since you came in here on Monday you've been alternately furious at everyone, or turned inwards like a turtle. You're my friend," she says. "You're hurt. I don't want you to hurt anymore. You won't talk to me at the moment, fine, but you need to _talk to someone_."

He sighs, staring at his laptop. "It's more complicated than that. There isn't anything I CAN do."

"Bollocks! I don't believe that. Now, I'm not going to argue with you. You know I'm right." She says. "If I didn't have to go over to Kate's tonight, I'd drag you over to Mel's myself. I'm going to ring him when I get to Kate's, and if you're not there, I will bombard you with calls every three minutes until you get your stubborn arse over there."

He has no choice but to go. He knows she'll make good on her threats.

At least Mary, Edith and Mr. Branson have kept their word, Charles thinks as he trudges across the road. They haven't even been in contact much. Both Edith and Mr. Branson have texted him once to ask how he is. Mary's texted every day since Saturday, and she rang him the night before. That had not been a long conversation. He had gotten the sense she had more to say, but was waiting for him to speak up. He hasn't been in the mood. He keeps cycling between fury and sadness, and silent depression and anger.

 _Life was easier when I didn't feel very much._

 _Elsie makes me feel too much._

Robert hasn't asked Charles anything over the last week, except ordinary questions about work or the cricket club.

 _I am fortunate that he is not nearly as observant as his mother._

He steps into the bar and stops for a moment, impressed by what he sees. It's been over a year since he stepped into the place for an after work drinks gathering, and the room gleams.

Dark wooden booths line one wall, while identical wood tables are neatly placed across the floor. In the back of the room is an empty elevated platform.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in." Mel's raspy baritone interrupts Charles. The Fu-Manchu wearing, tattooed bartender waves him over. "Come sit down, Mr. Carson. It's good to see you."

"You too." Charles says. As different as the two men are, they do share something in common. The younger man also lived for a time in the men's shelter on the south side. "How are you, Mel?"

"Just dandy," Mel says as Charles sits down in front of him. "Business is doing well ever since we renovated…you look like you've seen better days."

Charles smiles, but it's more of a grimace. "That's an understatement."

Mel fills a glass from the tap and gives it to another customer down the bar. "It must be bad if you're in here."

"Honestly, I'm here because Mrs. Patmore threatened me."

The bartender laughs. "I love that woman. She's a good friend to you."

"She is, as much as I hate her methods at times." Charles sighs. "I'd like something non-alcoholic please."

Mel gives him a glass of Ariel Cabernet Sauvignon. "Cheers."

Sipping it slowly, Charles admires the re-decorated bar. Mel goes to help another customer, then answers the phone.

"That was our mutual friend," Mel tells him after he hangs up. "She was pleased to know you're here."

As much as Beryl wants him to talk about what happened, Charles is reluctant. He knows he can trust Mel – the man is one of only a handful of people who knows he was once homeless.

But he still is unraveling his own feelings.

 _Time is what I need to make sense of all this._

Several days' reflection have made some things clear to Charles. One thing most of all: while he's still furious with Elsie, he doesn't hate her.

He's thought about her accusations – her harping on about his broken promise, most of all. She had a point. He remembers the guilt he felt in the days and weeks after he'd left her behind in the autumn of '77, wanting to return and see her, but uncertain that she felt anything like he'd felt.

 _And now I know she DID._

She said she'd loved him – though she'd thrown it at him in the heat of their argument, he'd heard it all the same.

It doesn't bring comfort. If anything, it fills him with regret.

 _What if I'd come back before she left? Maybe we could have been honest with each other then._

 _Everything could have been different._

 _Maybe._

 _It's too late now._

He gets angry again thinking about the wasted chances between them, and the time that's been lost. His anger fizzles to a quiet depression when he remembers how it ended between them.

 _I told her I would rather die than see her again. She told me to go to hell._

 _Chances are I'll die without ever speaking to her again, and_ _then_ _I'll go to hell._

 _Do I even want to speak to her again? What would I say?_

It's just as well he doesn't unload on Mel. The bar, which had been fairly quiet when Charles arrived, now buzzes. At a glance, it looks like many of the new arrivals are nearer to his age. He sees Caroline Anstruther stroll in alone, and Prudence Shackleton and Dickie Merton sitting in a booth with several others.

After two glasses of non-alcoholic wine and a tonic water, Charles tucks into hot fish and chips. He usually tries to be smarter with his eating choices, but he wants something comforting. And he's tired of eggs and toast.

"What IS that screeching?" He asks Mel, when music starts to filter over the loudspeakers.

"Panic! at the Disco," the bartender speaks up over the rising noise. "Their new song."

" _What_ at the disco? And people my age _like_ this?" Charles asks, incredulous.

Mel grins. "Not everyone over fifty is like you. Folks are very open-minded these days."

"If that's what you want to call it." Several couples are dancing on the empty platform. "Is that a dance floor? It's not very big." He frowns.

Laughing, Mel shakes his head. "No. Usually on Thursdays we have live music here. That's why there's so many of your generation here. Tomorrow night's when the university students invade…the band tonight had to cancel last minute, so I guess my guests are improvising." He leans closer to Charles. "I'll try to throw in some…uh, quieter music for you."

After the screeching song is over, the next begins with piano.

"… _But when I taste tequila, baby I still see ya_

 _Cutting up the floor in a sorority t-shirt_

 _The same one you wore when we were_

 _Sky high in Colorado, your lips pressed against the bottle_

 _Swearing on a Bible, baby, I'd never leave ya_

 _I remember how bad I need ya, when I taste Tequila…"_

Tears well in Charles's eyes, and he hastily wipes them with his napkin. "Damn you, Mel," he whispers, staring at his half-full water glass. It's sweating onto the bar.

" _I ain't even drunk, I ain't even drunk_

 _And I'm thinking_

 _How I need your love, how I need your love_

 _Yeah, it sinks in…"_ *

He thinks he should've gone with something alcoholic after all, instead of plain water. ANYTHING but water.

It's a relief when the song ends, and another mindless screeching one takes over. Bending over his plate, Charles scoops up more of his chips, relishing the taste of salt and vinegar on his fingers.

A man bumps his back, trying to walk past the bar. "Sorry," he says, then stops. "Carson! It's been a while."

Swallowing his chips, Charles dabs his mouth. "Good evening, Mr. MacClare."

"It certainly is." Hugh MacClare bounces nervously on his feet, smiling. "How are you?"

"I…I'm well," Charles says, not sure how to answer him but wanting to be polite.

"I hear about you from Robert. More often from Atticus, of course," the bearded man says. "He thinks you're a legend. How's he doing in the financial business? I was worried when he and Rose met at university…he bounced around a bit, but he seems to have settled into a career."

In truth, Charles isn't overly impressed with Rose's boyfriend. "He's doing just fine."

"Good, good." Hugh says, glancing around the room, distracted, before looking back at Charles. "He and Rose are going from strength to strength. I'm glad to see it – it gives me a bit of hope that my children will be happier in their relationships than I've been. But you never know, do you? Luck can change just like that."

"Can it?" Charles asks. _If I ever had luck, I threw it away._

"I think it can." Hugh straightens his collar and pulls on his jacket sleeves. "Ever since Susan and I divorced, I've seen several women. Some have been good, others have been outright disasters. But I'm optimistic about my luck tonight."

"Are you meeting someone?" It's an obvious question, but Charles senses Hugh wants him to ask it.

"I am." A bright smile gleams on Hugh's face. "A long-time business contact. Hopefully after tonight, it'll turn into something more."

"Well, the best of luck to you." Charles forces himself to smile. "Good night."

"Good night, Carson." Hugh hurries off to one of the few empty tables.

Charles eats the rest of his fish, leaving a few of the chips. _I could eat them all, what would it matter if I had a heart attack? It's not likely I'll meet a woman any time soon. Not after the experiences I've had._

 _My luck won't change._

He has to wait to get his credit card back from one of Mel's assistants. It's an uncomfortable wait while he hovers at the edge of the bar, trying not to listen to the song that's playing. It hits far too close to home for him.

" _I don't wanna be alone tonight_

 _It's pretty clear that I'm not over you_

 _I'm still thinking 'bout the things you do_

 _So I don't want to be alone tonight, alone tonight, alone tonight…"_

With relief, he steps forward when the young woman waves him forward. He signs the receipt and puts his card back into his wallent. Moving out of a waitress's path, he catches a glimpse of Hugh MacClare in the back of the bar, dancing.

With Elsie Hughes.

Everything seems to slow down, and sound seems to stop around him.

A few years before, Sybil had convinced Charles to do the ice bucket challenge, to raise money for ALS. The shock of freezing water poured over his head then was better than the shock he gets now.

He walks toward the back on shaky legs, wondering if he's seeing things. Several seconds later he knows he's not.

Her dancing – he remembers so well their dancing at Rusty's – the way she moves, her smile; every moment watching her is like being stabbed with knives.

 _I don't care,_ he thinks, caring all the while, his heart shattering in his chest. _I owe her nothing, and she owes me nothing._

But he cannot look away.

The song goes on with a different singer, a woman.

" _I wasn't even goin' out tonight_

 _But, boy, I need to get you off my mind_

 _I know exactly what I need to do_

 _I don't wanna be alone tonight, alone tonight, alone tonight_

 _Look what you made me do, I'm with somebody new_

 _Ooh, baby, baby, I'm dancing with a stranger…"_

Hugh turns Elsie in his arms, and she faces the front of the room. Her eyes meet Charles's over Hugh's shoulder.

Her mouth drops open, and she comes to a stop. Somehow when her eyes break contact with his, Charles can move once more. He turns and rushes outside. Breathing deeply, he takes in the darkening spring evening. The stars are coming out.

There's not a lot of traffic, but he has to wait for a car to go by before he can cross back to his parked car. All he wants to do is go home. His depression is rapidly replaced with anger.

 _Damn you, Beryl. This is YOUR fault._

 _Damn ME for letting you coerce me into going over there._

He whimpers, yanking out his keys, fighting tears.

"Wait!"

The sound of Elsie's voice only makes him want to get away faster. But his shaking hands betray him, and he drops his keys.

"Mr. Carson!" She totters across the road on a pair of heels that show off her legs. As he picks up his keys, he can't help but notice the way her knee-length dress shows off her figure.

 _She wore that to impress Hugh MacClare. NOT you._

Breathing fast, she comes up next to him. "I need to talk to you."

Her voice is nothing like it was the previous Saturday. Charles hardens himself, facing his car. "Last I heard from you, I was being sentenced to hell. We're finished talking, Mrs. Hughes," he growls.

"No, we're not," she says. "I-I said terrible things to you last week. I was in shock, seeing you, but that's neither here nor there. There are things you need to hear."

"' _I_ need to hear'? _I_ don't need to hear about the details of your evening with Hugh MacClare." He rounds on her, forgetting that he didn't want to look at her. " _He_ was quite keen to meet you."

"It was my understanding that we were meeting for a drink, that's all," she tucks a silver hair over her ear. "I didn't know he felt otherwise until I arrived."

He takes a step towards her. "You danced with him," he says.

Raising her eyebrows, she crosses her arms. "I like to dance. It doesn't always _mean_ something."

It never ceases to amaze him how she can hurt him with so little. "So when we danced together at Rusty's it meant nothing? I'm glad you cleared that up."

She flinches. "That was-that was different," she whispers.

He snorts, opening his car door. "You go on telling yourself that."

"I need to talk to you," she insists. She ducks under his arm and blocks his way.

He's tempted to wrench her hand off his car door and toss her onto the ground. "I don't need to listen to anything you say. Now, get OUT of the way before I ring the police."

"It's important." She lifts her chin, looking him right in the eye. "I would not bother you if it wasn't. But there's things I have to say to you, not here, but soon. After that you can decide if you want to hear anything more from me."

"How very generous of you." He growls. "I don't want to talk to you at all. It's late, I'm tired, and _I want to go home_."

Taking a breath, she presses her lips together. He thinks she's wearing red lipstick, but in the dim light from the streetlight, they look purple. Her shoulders slump and she moves aside, but still keeps a hand on the car door. "We have to talk _sometime_. You decide when we do."

 _How about never?_

He moves past her to get into the car, and she gently places her hand on his arm. "Charlie, please."

The sound of his name from her softens him. He closes his eyes, trying to get up the willpower to shake off her hand, get into the car, and drive off. He can't.

"Next Wednesday afternoon," he growls, not looking at her. "Contact me with the details later."

She relinquishes her hold on him. A part of him feels the loss of her hand, but he ignores it. "I will. Thank you."

He drives off, not able to resist looking in the rearview mirror. She's standing beneath the streetlight, her hands over her mouth.

 _Good. She's upset._

He wishes he would have had the willpower to say no to her.

 _Next Wednesday? What could she possibly say that would change anything?_

He is certain he is setting himself up for another fall.

* * *

 **A/N 2: So this is the kids' reaction, and most of Charlie's, and hardly anything of Elsie. I don't know, it just came out that way.**

 **Songs: the "screeching" song is "High Hopes"; "Tequila" by Dan + Shay; and "Dancing With a Stranger", sung by Sam Smith and Normani.**


	14. It's Going to Take Some Time

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. It's not Wednesday but I didn't want to wait for it. :)**

* * *

 _ **May, 2018**_

Standing in the car park beneath the street light, Elsie presses her hands to her mouth. Charlie's car turns onto the road and vanishes into the night.

She tries to hold back her tears, but gives up after a short struggle. It is a relief to let the salty wetness slide down her cheeks.

If only her tears could wash away the ache in her chest. It's worse than any physical pain she's endured. What makes it hurt worse is that she has very little hope that it will ever go away.

Or that there's a way it can be healed.

 _I DID love him,_ her heart beats at her. Traitorously.

 _That's why I was so furious with him, and it's why I've been crying every day since Saturday. Because he broke my heart._

 _He hates me now. He made that very clear._

 _Even if he ever felt something for me, it is long gone._

Escaping into the loo, back inside the bar, she wipes off the last vestiges of her smeared makeup.

 _First, Mr. MacClare makes a move on me…then I agree to dance with him. Then during 'Dancing With A Stranger', who do I see?_

 _Himself, of course._

 _Charlie Carson._

 _Why did I tell him I wasn't on a date? He doesn't have a right to know about my life!_

Maybe it was the lyrics to the song. They made her remember how she'd screamed at him. The guilt that she has been fighting for several days has returned with a vengeance.

She's astounded he even listened to her after their row. Though she's glad he did. She might never have spoken to him again if she hadn't seen him. And if it wasn't for what Anna had said earlier that week.

" _Mary hasn't told him about Thomas. None of the others have either. They haven't said a word, and they aren't planning to…but if you don't tell Mr. Carson soon, it'll likely come out eventually."_

After washing her hands she returns to the table.

"You were gone a long time. I was afraid you'd suddenly felt ill," Mr. MacClare says. He tries to smile. "You're not, are you?"

She doesn't like to lie, but she wants nothing more than to go home. "I'm afraid I am. I'm sorry," she says, picking up her purse. "Thank you for the drink."

"Maybe we can have a drink some other time, after you're feeling better." He stands up and takes her elbow. She resists the urge to shake him off. He is, still, a good business contact. "I've wanted to get to know you on a more personal level for some time."

"But not today," she gives him a tight smile, hoping it comes across as more polite than friendly. "Good night, Mr. MacClare."

"Please, call me Hugh," he says. When she doesn't reply, he lets out a small sigh and lets her go. "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

It is a relief to leave the bar, its loud music, and lively crowd. To go out into the starry night and breathe the fresh air.

Though that too reminds her of the man she'd known as Charlie.

 _There were stars in the sky the night we met, outside of Rusty's._

At home in her apartment Elsie slips into an old pair of pajamas, and pours herself a tonic water. She messages Anna and Thomas. Both of them send short texts back – _glad you're home early, love you, we'll talk later,_ etc.

She's tired but she is not tired enough to sleep. Work is usually a good distraction, but she's worked late every night this week.

 _And drank far more alcohol than usual._

She drums her fingers on the kitchen table, staring at the picture of the dog in the meadow. Usually it calms her, but it doesn't have its normal effect on her mood. Scissors meows and rubs against her ankle, then ambles off.

 _Normani was right. I don't want to be alone tonight._

Phyllis's phone rings twice.

" _Hello?"_

"Hi," Elsie says. "It's me. Listen, I know it's late, but would you mind coming over? I need to talk to someone."

" _I don't mind at all. I'm at Dad's, actually, so I'll be there in a few minutes._ "

There is a soft knock on Elsie's door before the water's boiled for tea.

She's greeted with a smile from Phyllis. "You know someone is comfortable in your presence if they don't bother changing out of their pajamas," her former neighbor says.

"True," Elsie sighs. "But I didn't feel like putting on regular clothes again, not when we're just going to sit and have a chat."

"It's not like I'm dressed up either," the brown-eyed woman says. She gestures at her dirty shoes and torn jeans, tugging at her ripped t-shirt. The short sleeve rides up over her shoulder, so her entire phoenix tattoo is visible. String yowls at her feet. She rubs his ears and sits down at the table. "I was in the city all day, helping the new trainers…they have six new dogs that'll be placed with veterans," she explains. "I just dropped by Dad's to check on him. I am glad you rang me," she says quietly. "Joseph and I were at Thomas and Edward's last Sunday. They told us what happened."

The kettle sings, and Elsie pours their tea. "Well," she says low, handing Phyllis her tea, "Now you know where Thomas gets his temper."

Taking a sip from her steaming cup, Phyllis raises her eyebrows. "I guessed that years ago. But if you think I'm going to judge you, have you forgotten you're talking to a convicted felon?"

"Coyle forced you into stealing. Charlie didn't force me to behave like a maniac. Even though he said things that made me forget all self-control." Elsie sits down, turning her cup in her hands.

 _It wasn't the first time I've lost control around Charlie. He makes me feel too much._

 _I should have simply told him that we HAD to talk later, and left him standing there. I was far too nice – HE didn't try to be, not at all._

 _Why_ _do I let him get to me? Blubbing in the car park like a schoolgirl…_

 _He might deserve my apology, but he doesn't deserve my tears._

"What did Mr. Carson say, exactly?" Phyllis asks. "I heard the general story from Thomas, but his was a secondhand account."

Elsie recounts the argument, trying not to let her temper get the better of her. "I know he was shocked to see me. Like I was shocked to see him," she says at the end. "But that doesn't excuse him from what he said. Or how he acted."

For the past week, she's fluctuated between anger bordering on rage, regret, depression, and apathy. She knows she likely overreacted to some things he said, but she can't bring herself to be sorry for all of them.

His refusal to face up to his lies, and his present indifference hurt most of all, especially when she recalls him saying he loved her.

Despite her anger, she knows she doesn't hate him. Sometimes she wishes she did.

Phyllis stares at her teacup. "You're angry with him. You've been angry with him for a long time."

"Yes." Elsie drinks the last of her tea. "Before last weekend, when we were discussing everything, Anna asked me if I was angry with Charlie. I told her I wasn't," she shakes her head. "What a fool I was…I've been angry with him for years without recognizing it. Furious, even." She sighs. "All of it came out right there. He got the full brunt of it."

"All of it?" Phyllis asks quietly. "You didn't tell him about Thomas."

"No. I couldn't think of how to start with _that_ – and once I'd lost it, I didn't think he deserved to know." Elsie gets up and puts her cup in the sink, feeling nettled. "Even after seeing him tonight, I'm still not sure. But Anna's right. If _I_ don't tell him, who will? I suppose _Mary_ might tell him, but…"

"You don't want that." Phyllis finishes. She sets her cup in the sink and leans against the counter. "You'd be furious with whoever told him, and furious with yourself, for not getting to him first. It's better to tell the truth while you still have a chance. I know – I might've avoided most of my sentence in prison, if I'd gone to the police first."

Guiltily, Elsie squeezes her arm. "This isn't the same as your situation."

"No, but not all prisons have visible bars. You not telling Mr. Carson is a sort of prison, one of your own making. You're angry with him for not coming back after he said he would. For leaving you pregnant. You need to tell him, for your own sake, as well as for his, and Thomas's," Phyllis says. "Your anger is eating you up inside. It's not pretty."

 _It never is._

It is a rare thing for Phyllis to be so blunt with her. But Elsie knows she wouldn't have done so without good reason.

 _She's telling the truth._

Still, it is very hard to acknowledge it herself.

"Yes, but how am I supposed to tell him and keep my temper? I'm not a saint. It was difficult enough to be civil with him last Saturday, when I saw how arrogant he was." Elsie snaps, shaking her head. "He kept looking around, like he was more concerned with what strangers might think, rather than what I was saying! And then he went on about not being 'a dog who comes at my whistle' – all I wanted was for him to at least provide a reason why he didn't keep his promise to come back. Any _decent_ person would have done that. But he didn't give me any reason at all! He just stood there, as pompous as you please, saying he owed me nothing. _Nothing._ Selfish, arrogant, fucking _arse_ ," she seethes. She wets the cleaning sponge and slaps it on the counter.

Phyllis studies the dog painting. "You don't know that he is selfish," she crosses her arms.

Snorting out a breath, Elsie wipes down the counter with unnecessary force. "Oh, I think I bloody well do."

"You really don't. You know hardly anything about him in between the time he left you and now, except for a few details." Phyllis's voice lowers almost to a whisper.

"I can guess." Elsie motions for her friend to move so she can clean the other side of the sink. "It takes little imagination at all. Being Mary Crawley's godfather, very involved with his cricket club. I doubt his daily routine has changed in forty years-"

"Mrs. Hughes, stop. Please."

Elsie looks up. Phyllis wrings her hands together, playing with her wedding band. There is a look on her face Elsie hasn't seen in years – since she first met the then-teenaged Phyllis on the dirt road by Joe's farm. "What is it?"

"You know I went through a terrible time after I got out of prison," Phyllis rushes out. "I was homeless for a while, until someone told me about the women's shelter on the north side of the city. I lived there for over a year…the hardest part wasn't actually living there. In a lot of ways, it helped me find stability. But the worst part was the stigma. I had hardly any work history, and even working two minimum wage jobs, I knew I could never hope to get anything better, not with 'Felon' on my record."

"But you did. You got a job at the hospital, working for Cora Crawley," Elsie says, confused.

Her friend nods. "I only got that job because Mr. Carson gave me a reference. That's how I got an interview at the hospital in the first place."

 _Mr. CARSON?_

"What?" Elsie cries. "How did he-how did you know- _what?_ " She stutters.

"I'd gone for an interview that the head of the shelter had set up for me," Phyllis explains. "At an employment agency. I had high hopes, but at the end of it they said they couldn't take me on. The woman apologized, saying she could see I was very eager, but the chances were that no one would want to hire me even as a temp, once they saw my record. My references were fairly nonexistent – the woman running the shelter was the only person I could list. After the failed interview, I went back to the shelter and cried. Hardly anyone was there, because it smelled like paint. That's when I met Mr. Carson. He was there helping Gary Lee re-paint the hallway and a couple of bedrooms."

Elsie drops the cleaning sponge onto the floor.

 _He was doing WHAT? And where?_

Of all the things she could imagine Charles Carson doing, helping re-paint a women's homeless shelter has to be at the bottom of the list.

"Are you _sure_ you're talking about the same Charles Carson?" She asks, picking up the dripping sponge.

 _How many Charles Carsons are there?_

"Positive. You said he's Mary's godfather. Cora and Robert have known him for years, and he's like a member of their family." Phyllis grabs the towel from the rack and wipes up the wet spot on the floor.

 _She IS talking about the same person. Will wonders never cease?_

"What did he SAY to you?" Elsie mutters, still trying to picture the scene.

"Both men saw that I was upset. Gary got me a glass of water, and Mr. Carson asked if he could help. He was very polite to me. Very gentle," Phyllis says. "When I said I'd never get a job outside of minimum wage without better references, he said he'd give me one. I protested, even though I was grateful. I told him that he didn't know me, and what if he regretted it?" Phyllis shakes her head in wonder. "I'll always remember him standing there in the hallway, in old trousers and a faded collared shirt, paint on his hands, and saying to me, 'I won't.'"

The Mr. Carson she describes sounds like a complete stranger to the man Elsie knows. "But…but…did he ever give you a reason why he'd give you a reference? I mean, it's good he gave you one, of course," she says. "And what was he doing at the shelter in the first place? That doesn't sound like him."

 _It doesn't sound like him at all._

 _You don't know him._

"He never gave me a reason, not really. He just said he was willing to take a chance on someone who needed one. As for what he was doing there, he must have been a good friend of Gary's," Phyllis muses. "A very good friend. He gave a reading at his funeral last year."

Elsie's jaw drops. Gary had been supportive of Phyllis's charity work with veterans, and Elsie had met him a few times at various events. The intermittent painter had been a working man through and through, gritty and rough around the edges; nothing like the thoroughly middle class Charlie Carson. On the surface of it, Elsie cannot imagine anything they would have had in common.

 _Clearly, they did. Maybe Gary played cricket._

Phyllis taps her finger on the counter. "Yes. Joseph was as surprised as I was. He tried to talk to him after Gary's burial, but Mr. Carson left immediately, too quickly for anyone to talk to him. Neither one of us have had a chance to ask him about it since. Look, I understand that you're upset – and you have every right to be – but just like Mr. Carson doesn't know about Thomas or most of your life since the first time you met, you don't know about _his_ life."

 _And from what Phyllis has just told me…I don't know very much at all._

"He'll think worse of me after he knows about Thomas." She shakes her head. Guilt claws at her relentlessly, but she clings to the memory of Charlie's red face, contorted in rage. It's easier to concentrate on that than her guilt. "He probably think I'm lying, or he won't listen."

 _He listened to you tonight,_ the small traitorous voice whispers in her mind. _He was angry too, but he didn't blow you off._

"You don't know that. In my interview with Cora, I was sure she would never hire me due to my past. She was shocked, but she appreciated my honesty. Mr. Carson will be shocked after hearing what you've got to say – it would be more shocking if he wasn't." Phyllis gives her a small smile. "Try to go easy on him, Mrs. Hughes. You've had forty years knowing Thomas was your son. He'll get forty seconds, if that."

Elsie smiles despite her jumbled feelings. "When you put it that way, I suppose I should go easier on him. I imagine he expects me to fly into a rage again. I'll have to surprise him." She sighs. "Then again, I know I will."

* * *

A soft breeze whispers through the trees in the park. Elsie shivers despite wearing her cardigan.

 _I hope it won't rain._

For the sixth time since she's arrived, she checks her mobile for the time. It's been less than a minute since her last check.

 _He's late. Maybe he won't come._

 _He said he would._

 _It wouldn't be the first time he broke a promise._

"Stop." She says aloud, and gets up. Sitting in one spot is doing nothing to help her nerves. She leaves her purse and umbrella on her chair and paces back and forth on the pavement, trying to steady herself.

It's cooler out than it had been the previous week, and she feels a spare raindrop twice. Perhaps the uncertain weather is a good thing, she thinks. Usually in the afternoon this park would have children and parents in the playground, and more people sitting in the area where she is. There's chess sets on some of the small tables; others are bare. It's a popular place on nice days. But there had been only two elderly men at one of the tables when she had arrived half an hour before, and now she's alone. A young man is halfway across the grassy area, playing fetch with his dog. She watches him for a little while.

Then she sees a tall figure nearly a block away walking her direction. Her heart skips, and her belly flips over.

 _He did come._

Taking a deep breath, she rubs her hands together and sits back down, facing him. Swallowing hard, she hopes she won't vomit. She's never felt nerves like this – never.

 _Think about Thomas. You're doing this for him, as well as for yourself._

Charlie strides across the pavement into the area where the chess tables are set up. "A client called just when I was leaving. I hope you haven't been waiting long," he says stiffly.

 _Only twenty-five minutes, and a lifetime._

She bites back the retort and gestures to the seat opposite her. "Not long. Please sit down."

He does so, his face a mask. "What's this about, Mrs. Hughes? I trust you didn't summon me here to pour vitriol on my head – again."

She can't help but notice his use of her formal name, and his rather haughty tone. She decides to mimic the former and ignore the latter. "No, Mr. Carson. I wouldn't have asked you to come here if it wasn't important. Very important."

"So you said." He folds his hands, his eyebrows furrowed.

His dark suit and blue tie are immaculate. She breaks eye contact with him, partly to concentrate on what she has to say, and partly to not get distracted by how distinguished he looks.

 _Don't think about that._

"I know your time is precious to you, and I appreciate that you agreed to meet me." She begins. "First of all, I want to apologize for the things I said outside of _The Downton._ I should not have attacked you like that, accusing you of having no honor or integrity."

It hurts to say it, as much as she feels justified in what she said. However, she knows that what she's going to tell him now will have a major impact, and she has to try to build bridges, no matter how much she'd prefer to leave the ones she burned in a smoldering ruin.

She ignores the whisper in her heart that says she never wanted to burn bridges with Charlie in the first place.

"You were nothing but polite when we first met in the theater. As I said before, I was shocked to see you. But that is no excuse for my behavior." She says, keeping eye contact with him.

His bushy eyebrows go up, and he looks genuinely surprised. A pause that seems to last for an hour passes before he finally breaks it. "I was shocked that you were there, too. And I behaved badly as well," he says. "I accept your apology…if you'll accept mine. I smeared your reputation, and accused you of wanting to use me for your own purposes. I lost my temper. I…can't remember the last time that happened." He lets out a breath, looking down at his folded hands before meeting her eyes again. "I'm sorry for mentioning your husband's death in such a callous way. That was beneath me, and cruel to you."

Her heart unclenches a bit at his apology. "Thank you. To be fair, I lost my temper first. And I do accept your apology. I did have a reason to be angry with you, a reason that I hope you'll let me explain now."

"Go on." He sits up, unfolding his big hands to lay them flat on the table.

Her heart beats faster as she tells him about her on again, off again relationship with Joe during her university years. She is as honest as she can be, no matter how awkward it is.

A spasm of anger flashes across Charlie's face. "So you _did_ use me," he growls, interrupting her monologue. "Knowing that you'd go back to your boyfriend after the summer was over, you flirted with me anyway!"

Elsie digs her fingernails into the palm of her hand. "I never flirted with you," she argues. "I enjoyed our conversations, I won't deny that, but I never flirted with you."

 _Not intentionally._

"You asked me to dance." His tone is accusatory, his eyes boring into her. "What was that, but an invitation?"

 _I remember what happened, too._ She raises an eyebrow. "And you were the one wanting _me_ to dance that last night. You also asked me to go with you back to the motel afterwards. Who was inviting who, now?"

He presses his lips together. "You could've said no both times. It's a simple word."

 _How DARE you!_ "As if all the responsibility was mine…you could've asked me more questions." She grinds the words out through her teeth, her eyes blazing. "Instead of assuming you knew everything about me."

"I never assumed-" he begins again, but she's having none of it.

"You assumed Joe and I had broken up, instead of asking me directly what was going on." She remembers Tammy gossiping in the kitchen, and a throwaway comment from Miranda about the taller of the Cheerful Charlies. _"He asked about you."_

"Yes, I could have been completely open with you, but that has never been my personality," she barrels on. "I have always been private. Why should I have told a stranger my entire life story?"

A twisted smile curves one corner of his mouth. "You were willing to go to bed with a stranger. Odd, isn't it, that you were so reluctant to tell me anything about you, even your full name, but you were open to sex with me."

She closes her eyes and huffs a loud breath through her nose. _I will NOT lose my temper. Not again._

"You were not exactly an open book, and you didn't say 'no' to sex, either." She reminds him, in a steadier voice than she feels. "Now may I please continue?"

He sighs, rolling his eyes, and gestures her to do so. "If you must."

His every movement in that moment reminds her so much of her son, that it yanks her back into the present.

Charlie's eyes widen when she tells him about Joe leaving her to go back to the farm, but he says nothing. She's glad. The closer she gets to telling him about Thomas, the more her heart races, the more her palms sweat, and the more her belly threatens to escape through her mouth.

"A few weeks after Joe left to marry Ivy," she says, taking a deep breath (and wishing she had a cigarette, or preferably something stronger), "I thought I had the flu. My roommate had had it. But I didn't have the flu." She swallows. "I was pregnant."

He cocks his head as though he doesn't understand her.

 _I must make him understand._

"I was shocked…and confused, because I wasn't sure who the father was." Her voice shakes, but she plows on. "There were only two men who could be him. After the doctor told me when I was due, I knew that there was no way of knowing for sure. I had no way of knowing then. But I know now…Thomas told me a few months ago that he and Joe took a DNA test last year." She makes sure to look him in the eye. "Joe wasn't his natural father. There was only one other man who could be, if Joe wasn't. You are. You are Thomas's father."

One beat stretches into two, then four, then eight. Charlie stares at her, his expression so frozen she wonders if he has solidified to his chair.

Until his lips move.

"Your…you…he…you…" Blinking, his eyes dart above her into the trees around them. "Thomas…" He sucks in a breath. His voice is no louder than a whisper. "I…I have a son?"

His shock softens her a little. _I've had time to get used to it. He's getting it all at once._

"Yes. Thomas is your son." She says quietly.

His mouth is open in a perfect O. He puts his hand over his mouth, and Elsie can't help but be impressed by his composure.

"You're telling the truth." He whispers again after a long time, pulling his hand away from his mouth.

"Yes." She repeats. She doesn't know what her face looks like, but however it does, it's clear that Charlie believes her.

 _Well, he doesn't think I'm a liar._

"I have a son." He says again, not looking at her. "I have a son…"

Elsie looks away when his voice breaks. She hasn't missed the tears glinting in his eyes. She doesn't know what they mean, and she doesn't know how she feels about them. About any of it.

 _Well, I've told him now. Pandora's Box is open._

She feels relief, but also a tremendous sense of trepidation.

 _I don't want Thomas to be hurt._

 _Like I was._

She glances back at Charlie when he gets up. He turns his back on her, walking a few steps away. She wonders if she should say anything more but realizes she has no idea what TO say.

He lowers his head, discretely wipes his eyes. Clears his throat. "Does…Thomas know about me?" He asks, turning around. His deep voice carries a slight wobble.

Her heart gives a lurch at hearing him say her boy's name.

"Does he know that you're his father? Yes," she says. "He found out after you and I…talked…outside the theater."

His face falls, and his expression is so devastated, that she almost gets up to comfort him. But she doesn't.

 _How could_ **I** _comfort him? He despises me._

"He must be furious with me." His eyes study the ground.

"More shocked and bewildered than furious." She hears herself say. "He doesn't know you. He knows _my_ temper well enough."

"Does he…does he…" Charlie smooths down his suit coat, straightens his cuffs. "Does he _want_ to know me?"

His fiddling with his cuffs carries Elsie to moments before Thomas and Edward got married. The same fidgetiness, the same movements, she saw in her boy are right in front of her. Charlie blurs a bit in her vision. "He's willing to get to know you, if you are." She whispers.

She hastily fumbles in her purse for a tissue to dab at her eyes. _Why are_ _you_ _getting teary?_

 _There are bound to be similarities between them._

 _I've never seen any similarities before, until now._

She stuffs the tissue back into her purse when Charlie sits down again, but he doesn't seem to notice her emotion.

"They all must know. The children…the younger ones." He fumbles out. "If Thomas found out about…me at the theater, then Mary and Edith and Mr. Branson…"

"Yes, Mary Crawley knows," Elsie says the young woman's name harsher than she intends.

 _I should be grateful she didn't tell him everything the first moment she got a chance. Matthew probably forced her to keep quiet. And Anna likely made her promise, too._

There is a long silence. Elsie sees several raindrops spatter on the nearby pavement, but she doesn't feel any.

"I am sorry. Truly, I am. I can never apologize to you enough," Charlie says. He sits up, his back pressed against the back of his chair.

"Apologize?" She asks, thinking about Thomas and the apologies between them.

Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose. "For not coming back when I said I would. That's why you were so angry with me for not keeping my word. You were left pregnant, and alone, with no one to count on."

 _I had Mam, for a little while,_ she thinks. Part of her wants to rage at him. To give him both barrels, to call him a dishonorable cad. _Yes, you lied to me and never came back!_

She wants to tell him of Mam dying suddenly and leaving her to raise Thomas alone; all the sleepless nights and long days and feeling like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. But she can't.

When he looks at her, all she can see is the most defeated-looking man on earth. The bags under his eyes seem etched into his face.

"Why didn't you come back?" She asks. It's the same question she's been wanting to know the answer for years, but it comes out quiet. Not an accusation.

"I did. Once." He says. "A couple of months later, in the autumn…you were gone. Your former landlady didn't know where you'd gone."

Elsie's heart skips. "W-what? You came back?"

 _Looking for me…_

"I delayed for weeks because you saw our one night together as a one-off. I thought you would've already moved on with your life." His eyebrows come together, deepening the line between his eyes. "I didn't realize until later how much I…cared for you. But when I came back and found you gone that autumn, it was clear I was right. You hadn't felt the same."

 _He cared for me. I thought he didn't. And he thought I cared nothing for him…_

 _I didn't believe he would come back. And he DID._

 _I was already gone._

Bile rises in her throat.

 _Oh god, what a fool I was._

She doesn't know whether she should cry, or scream. She squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to pay attention to Charlie. "…I was afraid you'd see me as some kind of stalker." He says, his brow still furrowed when she looks at him again. "To be honest, I visited _The Downton_ and the area recently because I wanted to find you again. I should've told you the truth when I saw you."

She is stunned, and slumps against the back of her chair.

 _HE was looking for ME._

 _I didn't tell him the truth about that, either. About going there to search for him. Because I thought he would think_ **I** _was a stalker, too!_

Her breath increases. "So…so…you _didn't_ just go there because you had nothing better to do," she says.

He visibly flinches. "I should not have said that. I didn't mean it…but like I said, I didn't want to tell you I'd gone there to look for you. It seemed like a fool's errand at best to hope for anything. I never expected to _see_ you there."

"I didn't either," she says, her voice thick. "And I didn't go to _Pint & Plate_ just to have brunch, and I didn't just wander over to _The Downton_ because I was curious. The truth is, I was looking for you. For Thomas's sake, mostly."

"Of course."

"But also because I wanted to find out, if I could, what had happened to you. And so I did. I thought you'd find me odd if you knew the truth."

 _Why did I say all that?_

 _It's all true, girl._

He lifts his shoulders a little. "You came there…for me?"

Feeling her face get warm, she can only nod.

Sitting up, he lets out a breath and his expression softens. "It seems we both found more than we bargained for."

She laughs under her breath, feeling close to tears, and pulls an errant grey strand of hair over her ear. "That's putting it mildly."

 _I was looking for him, and he was looking for me. What are the chances that we'd find each other?_

 _Maybe he doesn't despise me._

 _Whatever his feelings are now, he's likely feeling his way along, same as me._

 _This is a whole other sort of 'feeling our way along' than before._

She bites her lip, and gives an imperceptible shake of her head.

 _That's all in the past. Gone._

"It is true, what you said? About Thomas wanting to get to know me?" He leans forward, placing his big hands on the table.

"Yes," she says, glad he's changed the subject. "He didn't say anything more than that…he was waiting to see how today went. He knows I'm here now."

Charlie nods. "I would like to get to know him. The only thing I really know about him is that he's good at cricket. You'd say there's much more to him than that, I'm sure." He gives her a nervous smile.

Her heart eases, and her throat constricts. Her eyes get misty.

 _It will mean a lot to Thomas that Charlie wants to form a connection as well._

 _Thank God I didn't muck that up, like most other things._

"I would, and I do say there's more to him." she quavers. "We had our struggles when he was young, naturally. I am partial, I know, but he's grown into the best son I could ever ask for." She smiles back at Charlie. "He _is_ quite good at cricket."

He presses his lips together, nodding, and looks down at his hands. "I've never thought of myself as a sentimental man. I don't often dwell on the past; rather, I'd prefer to move on with life. The Crawleys are all the family I've got. They've been very good to include me in their family circle. But I've been alone ever since my parents died…and…" His voice trails off, and he looks to the side. "Oh my _god_."

"What?" She raises her eyebrows and looks to where he's glancing, but there's nothing in the street worth seeing.

He looks back at her. "At _The Downton_ …upstairs, before I saw you, I talked to Thomas." He pulls out his mobile and begins scrolling, his finger flying across its screen. "Do you have a picture of him? You probably have several…"

"Yes." Elsie gets out her mobile and pulls up one of her favorites. It's a picture of Thomas, Edward, and Anna from the previous summer, taken at the last cricket match. Thomas stands in between his husband and sister, still sweaty, his black hair sticking to his forehead.

Charlie stares at his mobile, then up at her. "May I see it?"

Bewildered, she lays hers down on the table, turning it so it's the right side up for him.

His eyes fill with tears. "This is…I have this photograph of my mum and dad at home," he says, his voice breaking. He sets down his mobile next to hers. "I took a picture of it a while ago. I _knew_ …he looked…familiar…"

She looks at the picture on Charlie's mobile. It's a picture of an old photograph, a black and white one. A man and woman smile back at her. It is obvious the man is Charlie's father – the two share identical noses. And the woman-

"My god," Elsie gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "She looks _just_ like Thomas!"

Charlie's mother has the same nose, eye shape, and the same cheekbones. The same smile. Even the one hand that's visible in the picture is fairly identical to Thomas's.

 _His other grandmother._

Drawing a deep breath, Charlie wipes a tear off his cheek. Another escapes from beneath his finger, continuing down to his jaw. "His hair is black, like hers was. Like…like mine was. Dad had dark brown hair, but he had the curls. Mum's was straight. It looks like Thomas inherited that from her, too."

Elsie holds the back of her hand up to her mouth, choking back a sob. "This will mean so much to him. He's never known who he looks like – I thought he might've taken after one of my family, but I was wrong."

 _About that, and several other things._

She weeps, knowing after everything she's been through over the last six months that it's better to let the tears out. It is not just imagining Thomas's reaction to all this.

She remembers all too well the dark days after Mam died; Becky, closed off into her own world and not understanding; the memory of walking away from Mam's relatives after the funeral.

Cuddling Thomas while he nursed, and knowing she was not alone.

The man trying so hard not to cry in front of her (and failing miserably) has been alone most of his life, she thinks. Even with the Crawleys, his must have been a very lonely existence.

 _He's not alone anymore._

Tears run down Charlie's face, and he fumbles in his pockets until Elsie hands him a tissue. "I apologize…I'm not usually like this, Mrs. Hughes."

"Don't apologize. Neither am I." She grabs another tissue for herself from her purse. She waits for a minute while he wipes his face. She dabs at her eyes and gives silent thanks for waterproof mascara. "Are you all right, Mr. Carson?"

It seems silly to ask. _Of course he's not all right._

He crumbles the tissue in his hand. "You've known Thomas all your life. Since he was born. Before."

"Yes," she whispers.

 _Little leaf, clinging to the tree._

"He changed your life. Knowing him will change mine." Charlie clears his throat. "Thank you for telling me about him. You didn't have to."

"You're welcome." She says, beyond grateful for Phyllis and Anna's wisdom.

 _I am glad they talked sense into me._

He gets Thomas's number from her. "I won't ring him today…I need some time." He stands and glances up at the darkening sky. "But I will ring him soon."

"I'll tell him to expect you." Elsie gets up as well. The little drops of rain fall faster, dotting the pavement, pattering the leaves of the trees above them and wetting her hair. She picks up her purse and opens her umbrella. "Mr. Carson-"

"Yes? He turns, already twenty feet away from her. "I need to get to my car. It's at the office."

"Let me walk you back," she says. "There's no need for you to get soaked through."

He waits for her to catch up, then takes her offered umbrella. It makes far more sense for him to hold it than her. Walking beside him, Elsie is reminded of how tall he is.

The rain increases to a downpour. By the time the reach the car park, their feet are soaked.

His car is in the same car park where they had talked the previous week, in the exact same spot.

 _Of course it is,_ she thinks. _His life has been the same for God knows how long._

 _Not anymore._

Despite all the changes she's experienced in the last year, she knows hers won't be the same either.

"Thank you for letting me borrow your umbrella," he says in a loud voice over the pounding rain.

They stand next to his car for several moments. She speaks up before she loses her nerve.

"I accept your apology. For not coming back all those years ago. It was wrong of me to blame you totally, when you didn't know that I cared for you then, too."

He blinks, staring down at her. "You cared...too."

She forces herself to speak loud enough for him to hear her. "I didn't know you cared for me, and if I'd spoken up, maybe you would've come back sooner. It doesn't change anything now, but I thought you should know it wasn't all your fault."

His eyes are sad. "It changes you from where I'm standing."

Their fingers brush when he hands her back the umbrella. She gasps at the sensation, at the feeling that she hasn't felt in a long time.

In years.

He drives off, and she trudges back to her own car. She wants to cry but her tears refuse to appear.

 _I have no tears left._

 _Why do I care if he never feels anything for me again? I shouldn't._

 _I did love him then._

 _I still do._

 **A/N 2: I thought chapter twelve was rough, and then this one came along. There was so much to say that I found it couldn't all be said at one time. Well, it could have, but I couldn't handle the emotional whiplash. And that was while simply staying in Elsie's point of view!**

 **Elsie thinks of him as Charlie in her mind, so I've gone along with that. His use of her formal name straightaway was unexpected. Characters sometimes do what they like. At least we're used to them calling each other 'Mr. Carson' and 'Mrs. Hughes'.**

 **You probably noticed two glaring omissions from their conversation: Miranda, and Charlie being homeless once upon a time. Both will be brought up later, but this conversation was focused on Charlie finding out about Thomas. I have no idea if his reaction was believable or not. If you have a few minutes, please let me know what you think.**

 **A huge thank you to all my reviewers, who kept nudging me. It isn't a lack of will or lack of inspiration that makes this fic hard to update more regularly. Rather, it was staring at this very angsty piece of story while dealing with real life angst that I couldn't handle. I can do angst in writing, or angst in real life, but not both at the same time – at least, not well. Things have calmed down, and I finally got to the place where I could pick this up again. Thank you for your patience.**


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